


Sins of the Father

by sarapsys



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Child Neglect, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mourning, POV Roger, Roger's C- Parenting, wammy's house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 20:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20297290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarapsys/pseuds/sarapsys
Summary: The House and L's successors from the perspective of the man who raised them. You can't protect your children from everything, especially when they don't want your protection.





	1. House and Headmaster

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on Fanfiction.net in 2009. I'm reposting it now without any editing beyond some slight reformatting and proofreading.

He was in the garden when the call came, and consequently missed it.

Kneeling really wasn't good for his arthritis, but the begonias needed to be weeded. Ignoring the creaking protests of his back and knees, Roger pulled gamely away at the stems sprouting up around the flowers. The begonias—the whole garden, really—seemed overrun already, the flowers dull and wilting despite the fine weather. Beds and neat rows cultivated carefully to look half wild were quickly becoming so without Rosalea's loving attention. Roger had never had the same knack she did for nurturing growing things.

He pushed up his hat and wiped his brow, sighing. Perhaps he ought to consider hiring a gardener, he thought morosely as he cast a glance around his wife's garden. The idea of a stranger invading her sanctuary, though, so soon after….

It wasn't until after lunch (eaten alone, the opposite setting of the table silent and empty) that Roger noticed there was a message on the answering machine.

* * *

"Please, come in," Roger said, ushering his guest into the foyer.

Quillsh Wammy, though he was a few years' Roger's senior, still had some spirit of youth that Roger felt that he himself had lost: a brightness in his sharp blue eyes, a sense of purpose in his step, a retention of the firm-shouldered military stance Roger had surrendered to the weight of age and, more recently, grief. He'd also grown a moustache since last Roger had seen him. The kindness in his voice, however, was the same.

"I heard about Rosalea. I'm so sorry."

Roger nodded, not trusting himself to reply, accepting the silent comfort of his old friend's hand on his shoulder.

"I was surprised to get your call," Roger finally broached the subject that hung heavily between them after tea had been served and polite pleasantries exchanged. "It's been a few years."

"Yes," Quillsh said, smiling slightly and setting his teacup down. "I've been working on…something new."

"Developing another new-fangled thingamabob?" Roger frowned. Quillsh was _always _working on 'something new'. This had been the first time in their thirty-year acquaintance, however, that he had simply fallen off the planet for a couple years.

"No," Quillsh said, and chuckled. "Perhaps a better wording would have been _someone_ new."

Harrumphing, Roger sat back in his armchair. "So that's it. Been wining and dining a pretty woman or some such thing, have you?" It was somewhat amusing, though a little off-putting that Wammy had completely lost contact for so long for such a reason.

But that, as it turned out, was _not _what his old friend had been up to. First disbelieving, then incredulous, then overwhelmed, Roger listened to Quillsh's strange story, a story about a child savant he had found, a boy with an amazing talent for solving unsolvable crimes.

* * *

"So this L, as you call him, is actually recognized by Interpol."

"Most definitely," Quillsh affirmed. "They have no idea of his identity, of course, or mine. But L has become something of a…legacy."

Roger eyed his old friend sharply over the rim of his glass. The tea was long gone, and he had found it necessary to bring out the scotch, despite not having supper yet. Quillsh had _that _look, the look that meant whatever crazed fantasy he had managed to somehow wrestle into reality, be it a computer chip or an ergonomic chair or a sonar plane, he was already underway to make it even crazier and more fantastical.

"I see," Roger said guardedly. "And so…what brings you to me, after all this time?"

Wammy's gaze grew keener, though no less friendly. "We have encountered some complications in some preemptive attempts designed to maintain L's future as a weapon against crime. I realize now that I made certain assumptions while making staffing arrangements that were not conducive to forwarding our goals." He paused, and his tone softened. "I _have_ been keeping up with you and the rest of the boys, though I know I haven't been in very good contact…and when the news came of your wife…I thought…you might appreciate a change of scenery."

Roger's heart contracted.

"I've come," Quillsh set his scotch glass down on the table and leaned forward earnestly, "to ask you to accept a position at our installation in Winchester."

* * *

This was…not at all what Roger had prepared himself for.

"You said the Winchester establishment was a _training center_," he muttered under his breath as the two old men rolled up the winding driveway to the elegant mansion Quillsh referred to as the 'House'. His friend had been terribly unspecific, but he had certainly implied that Roger's career background made him a perfect candidate for this position.

As the ex-military administrative director of a training facility for a private security force, Roger had been expecting a similar institution designed specifically to train L's personal bodyguards. How better to maintain L's future than to keep him protected? But this—this—

Yes, there was a sturdy stone wall surrounding the place, as well as a heavy iron gate protected with a complex digital security system, but there was no sign of a training yard or gym or armory. Instead an old-fashioned bell tower presided over a sprawling three-story building with French windows and ivy-hung brick walls, a neatly sculpted lawn, and a football pitch. A pitch currently in use. Shouting indistinctly, a handful of children scrambled after the ball in high-spirited competition.

"Indeed it is," Quillsh said. Roger gazed fixedly through the tinted window at them, feeling rather ill. "On paper, this institution is an orphanage. In reality," he actually grinned as Roger tore his eyes away from the playing children and stared at him in growing horror, "this is where I have been gathering the best and brightest orphans from across the world to find a successor to L. Then, if anything should ever happen to him, his legacy will be carried on."

"I see," Roger said faintly.

"You're looking like you rather regret coming after all," Quillsh observed.

"I…" Roger shook his head, unsure of where to start. Successors to a child savant? A training facility for—children?

Doctors had told Roger and Rosalea a lifetime ago that they would never produce children. Neither of Rosalea's siblings had had children, and Roger was an only child. Roger's world was one of paperwork and orderliness and schedules and evaluations, not of mud and screaming and petty tantrums and whatever else it was that children got up to. Quillsh had said that his own charge, L, was only sixteen, but sixteen wasn't _so _very young—he'd worked with recruits only two or three years older, after all—and he didn't expect he'd be seeing the boy much anyway. But these, those children playing in the yard, they were—well, Roger wasn't sure. He didn't _know _any children, so had no frame of reference by which to judge their approximate ages. He doubted any of them were in their teens.

"I don't think I have the appropriate qualifications for this position," was what he finally managed.

The sleek black car stopped at the front door of the House. Even as they sat there, two children tripped past the car and up the stone steps, one supporting her crying companion, apparently scraped or bumped in the game.

"On the contrary, I think your qualifications make you an ideal candidate."

"Quillsh." Roger ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. "I train professionals to work in demanding, high-stress situations. Mature adults. I don't work with children."

Wammy turned off the ignition, the set of his mouth uncharacteristically serious. "Did you see those two that just went inside?" He glanced sidelong at Roger.

"Yes, of course, but that's exactly what I mean—I don't know how to deal with scraped knees or—"

"That little girl," Quillsh interrupted, "was not hurt. And if she was, it was intentionally self-inflicted for that performance."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The students rarely play out of doors this time of day. Afternoons are generally devoted to study. Something today is more interesting than preparing for their upcoming exams." Quillsh nodded slightly back toward the pitch. "A few stand watch. I expect that the rest are stationed throughout the House, similarly pretending at inconspicuous activities. Those two were sent to tell those inside that a stranger has arrived."

"That's ridiculous, Quillsh," Roger scoffed. "Even if children would go to such complicated lengths, how did they know we were coming in the first place?"

A tiny smile lurked around the corners of the older man's mouth. "A couple of them are excellent hackers. They probably read that I had an appointment in my computer schedule."

A curtain on the second floor shifted slightly. Quillsh chuckled.

"Come, let's head inside. They're probably stewed half to death with curiosity."

* * *

True to Quillsh's prediction, there seemed to be children everywhere as Roger was given a brief tour of the building. Some sat alone in windowseats, apparently reading, others sprawled on the floor or huddled at tables in twos or threes playing games or working together, and once a small group chased passed them in a hallway, giggling and darting subtle, scrutinizing glances at the men. Now that he was paying attention, Roger was fairly certain he was seeing the same children multiple times in several places throughout the building, and that some of those were the same children they had seen minutes before out in the yard.

It was, he had to concede, an impressive facility. When he looked past the fact that it was populated by minors, Roger was able to observe that it truly was, as Quillsh said, a training ground. Security cameras winked from the corners. The extensive library contained books and periodicals in forty languages, and, according to Wammy, merely represented a fraction of the information resources available on the cutting-edge computer system. There _was _a gym, in fact, with a lap pool and tumbling mats, as well as several science labs, shops for building computers and electric circuitry, and sound-proofed practice rooms for music.

We have a mandatory core curriculum," Quillsh told him as they toured the place. "Reading, writing, math and ESL, of course, as well as world history and politics, and basic technology and physical sciences. All other courses are elective. We hire tutors and specialists from around the world to teach whatever subjects our students express an interest in pursuing."

"I'm impressed," Roger admitted.

"I rather hoped you would be. So, how about a cup of tea?" Quillsh smiled, glancing meaningfully at a tiny girl passing by (a book on astrophysics tucked under her arm).

* * *

"Sorry to be so abrupt. They do like to know what's going on, but not everything is need-to-know information for the students," Quillsh told him conspiratorially after he had ushered Roger into a well-lit study, full of honey-colored wood and half-empty bookshelves, and switched on an odd-looking device produced from his jacket pocket. "Jammer," he said, noting Roger's quizzical look. "They've been known to bug the office. Please, have a seat."

Roger rubbed his arthritic fingers distractedly. A sudden thought had occurred to him after observing the children, who, in his opinion, were damn creepy. "You indicated there were problems with previous staffing. What happened to the last manager?"

For the first time since showing up on Roger's doorstep, Quillsh looked troubled.

"You understand, of course, that everything I am about to tell you is in strictest confidence."

"Of course."

The previous House headmaster, his old friend explained, had a background in running boarding schools.

"I thought he would be perfectly suited to overseeing the students' education," Quillsh said soberly. "As it turned out, his experience working with average children was exactly what led to his oversight of some serious problems that were developing among the students."

The children were all given false names upon arrival, their real names and history known only by Mr. Wammy and the headmaster. Names were assigned by initial in alphabetical order. Alt and Backup had been the first.

"All the children are very _unique_ individuals," Wammy mused, rubbing his chin. "Extreme gifts, I think, go hand in hand with a tendency toward eccentricity. B, however, was always particularly…unusual. I come to the House rarely; much of my time is spent traveling with L, organizing cases, forging and cultivating contacts. I counted on the headmaster to monitor things here at the House and inform me of anything alarming."

The former boarding school principal, however, had underestimated his charges. B was developing in a way that was most certainly cause for alarm, but was able to keep the headmaster oblivious simply because the man couldn't believe a child would be anything but innocent at heart. Petty and mean and jealous, perhaps, but not murderous.

B was cruel, vindictive, knew how to play on the fears of others. Most of the students ostracized him. One was unable to avoid him, however. B was known to follow A around, bothering him constantly. In retrospect, and after having questioned some of the other students, Quillsh had put together a quite sinister picture of the situation: B had deliberately pushed A's buttons, probing mercilessly at the most sensitive spots he could find, goading him until A started to crumble under the combined academic and social pressure. The other children suspected something was off, but in the end, they were reluctant to approach B, and A was driven to suicide before anyone intervened. By the time the headmaster was aware of the situation, B had run away, injuring two other children on his way out when a group of students found A's body and confronted his indirect murderer.

"Those who would discuss it," Wammy added grimly, "indicated that the encounter was not a chance happenstance—they intended to incapacitate him themselves, permanently if possible, rather than informing the headmaster and letting the staff deal with it."

All of this had happened a mere two months previous. Appalled that such a thing had been allowed to happen, Quillsh had immediately released the headmaster from his contract.

"Oh. My goodness." Roger stared at his friend, wrinkled hands clutched tight around his teacup. "Is that—is that normal behavior for children?"

"Not for normal children. No."

"But typical of these students." It was sounding less like his current job of training security specialists, Roger thought, and more like the job he had taken immediately after his retirement from the military, as a prison warden.

"Well," Wammy temporized, "B was an exception rather than the rule. Our students don't typically go around killing each other. But they do take matters into their own hands, and act and think in ways that most would not expect children so young to be capable of.

"Do you see, now, why I am offering this position to you, despite not having worked with children before?" Quillsh asked earnestly. "These are _not_ children. They do not _act_ like children. They do not tolerate being treated like children. These are people—young, yes, but very adult in some respects—who are being trained to deal with demanding and high-stress situations, as you say. Your lack of experience with children is an asset, not a liability, because your preconceived notions of how children behave are relatively unformed. I am not asking that you yourself be a teacher or nanny to these students; we have staff that deal with their daily needs. Also, many measures have been taken to ensure the incident is not repeated. The cameras, for instance, are new, and we have employed a psychologist to monitor the mental status of every student.

"The position of headmaster is administrative in nature, but it also requires a keen attention to overall trends in what is going on in the facility. I think you would be perfectly suited to the job. If you are interested."

Roger steepled his fingers, letting his eyes rest on the jammer. Quillsh's story about B was a little disturbing, but no worse than incidents he had witnessed in prisons and adult training facilities. It was certainly something different, a task that would keep him occupied. Already, despite how little he knew, it was clear that this position Quillsh was offering was more than a job. This had all the hallmarks of the type of position that consumed and demanded the life's dedication of the one who filled it.

His life didn't have much going for it at the moment, other than killing Rosalea's precious flowers.

"Tell me more about it."


	2. Sons and Successors

The phone rang once, and was at Roger's ear before he was fully conscious.

"Yes, Watari." Blearily he fumbled in the dark for his glasses.

"I'm bringing in two new students," came Quillsh's voice. The sound of it was a strange mixture of wonderful and aggravating; it had been a month since Roger had heard from his friend, but no one had a right to sound that chipper at—Roger peered gummily at the alarm clock—three in the bloody morning.

"New students? Right _now?_" he repeated, shuffling in search of his slippers.

"Yes. We'll be there in half an hour."

Not for the first time, Roger wondered what had possessed him to accept this bizarre job. After a full four months he was still kept constantly on his toes. The students and staff had all been in something of a mess when he first came, a sticky morass of trauma and guilt and fear left behind by A and B, and once things started to calm down, there were still a great many peculiarities to be gotten used to: from the rapid-fire pidgin dialect the children adopted when talking amongst themselves (a reflection of their enjoyment of linguistic cleverness and their varied backgrounds, comprising of a tangle of English, Chinese, French, and Farsi), to all their little quirks—E would only walk on every other step in the foyer staircase no matter how it blocked foot traffic, J had a slightly unsettling habit of stealing other peoples' socks and tacking them to his door, and C had nearly gotten them all in trouble recently when she accidentally (she claimed) hacked the emails of several CEOs of major international corporations.

Then there were the eccentric requests of temporary professors and other teachers. There had been the herbalist who wanted to co-opt a part of the kitchen gardens, for instance, which the head cook (who believed that the herbalist was probably a witch) had protested vehemently, and the exasperating juggling of schedules that had been necessary for the astronomy class. The professor insisted on holding course hours at night on the basis of what was happening in the sky rather than on the ground. Roger grudgingly conceded it made sense and that one couldn't dictate the rising of Mars or whatever nonsense it was, but it had resulted several times in students falling asleep during core curriculum the following mornings, and consequently suffering in their studies.

These were the first new students since he had started. It figured that there would be two at once. No doubt their arrival would throw off the delicate balance of tenuously respectful peace he'd managed to establish at the House.

"I would have gotten a hotel," Quillsh was saying apologetically, "But neither of them are in the best shape, and I thought it might be better to get them settled in as soon as possible rather than dragging them all over London. Please rouse Marta and Verity." And then he hung up.

Still yawning, he woke the House matron and the nurse as Quillsh had requested, fending off the flurry of questions. Yes, _two _new children. In half an hour—twenty minutes, now. No, he didn't know a thing about them—no, not their ages or genders or why they needed to see the nurse right away, and keep it down before they woke the students and had pandemonium on their hands.

That last finally quieted the women. Although, Roger thought dryly, it probably wouldn't make much of a difference; one of the older students had invented a new device recently (or, well, Roger had become aware of it recently—who knew how long the children had been using it) that the kids called a jamb-sticker, comprised of two tiny magnets, a wireless chip, and two stickers. One magnet and the chip would be stickered to the doorjamb and the other magnet to the door, and the stickers colored to match the wood. A quiet alarm went off when the magnets either gained or lost contact with one another. The students did like to keep track of what was going on. He hadn't checked to see if his door had been jamb-stickered again yet, but he didn't doubt that at least a few of them were awake and listening at their doors to find out the latest news.

Oh well.

* * *

Quillsh hadn't been exaggerating when he said they were in bad shape.

They had the look of boys who had been recently scrubbed for the first time in a long time—clean faces but shaggy, overgrown hair and bitten nails. Apart from a general appearance of neglect, though, they couldn't have been more different.

The elder of the two (the newest of the old set was Linda, so this one would be M), who looked to be around six, was almost feral. He refused any guidance and walked boldly ahead of Wammy, but shied away, teeth bared, when the matron offered him her hand. Blazing blue eyes darted suspiciously around the entrance hall, as though he were expecting something or someone to jump out at him at any second. It didn't take powers of observation like L's to see why the boy was so skittish. Old bruises, green and sickly yellow, blotched his thin face, and the half-healed scab on his cheek suggested the giver of some of those marks had probably worn a ring.

The other, N, looked more like a corpse than a child. The only sign of outright abuse apparent as of yet was the plaster cast encasing one small foot, but the pale, tiny figure cradled in Quillsh's arms hung as limply as a doll, not reacting when Watari placed him carefully in the matron's arms. He might as well have been asleep except for his dark open eyes, almost grossly huge in his sunken face, wandering about listlessly and accepting his new surroundings with hopeless resignation.

A stony hand wrapped tightly around Roger's chest. He was familiar with the backgrounds of all the students, from the unhappy to the downright horrifying, but they had all been here long before he himself. Their pasts were paperwork and their lives fairly pleasant, if occasionally stressful. Seeing the stamps of abuse and neglect for himself, however, was another matter altogether.

Roger pitied these two boys, and the awareness of it troubled him. He was here as the overseer to their training, not….

Reading the profiles Quillsh had brought him was even worse. He retreated to his office to scan over them while Watari patiently attempted to convince M that the nurse was trustworthy, and it was safe to go with her to the infirmary.

Mello, as Quillsh had named him, had very nearly been beaten to death by his father after watching him rape and murder his mother the Tuesday before last. The father had committed suicide after believing the boy to be dead. Looking through the police history, Roger was appalled that the recent orphan hadn't been taken away by social services years before—this abuse had apparently been the worst, but certainly not the first incident.

Near, on the other hand, was not technically an orphan. There was no record of his father; the mother had been taken in on shop-lifting charges three states away from the house where the boy and the starved body of his infant sister had been found by the landlord (there to post an eviction notice for unpaid rent). From the sound of it, she had abandoned her children at least two weeks before. The broken foot had occurred when the child slipped and fell off the kitchen counter while trying to find something to eat, having gone through everything remotely edible in the ground-level cupboards.

The clinical language of the reports combined with the respective fear and despair in the two boys' faces made him feel sick. He thought maybe he _would _be sick.

Instead he had a glass of scotch, and got to work.

As he systematically destroyed the legal evidence of their existence, a thought occurred to him: the purpose of extending L's legacy was to bring justice to perpetrators of such crimes, and those that created the conditions in which such abuses were perpetuated. There was a certain satisfying rightness in the completion of this circle—that those who were victims today might avenge similar wrongs in the future.

It soothed the sudden doubts in his position spawned by meeting Mello and Near.

* * *

Years passed, and as Roger gained confidence, he and the House settled into a comfortable rhythm.

He shuffled through mountains of paperwork, made arrangements for the teaching staff to be cycled in and out as they were needed, and took up his old hobby of collecting insects—mostly dried, but he kept a live walking twig in a terrarium in the corner of his office. The students called him 'Warden' when they thought he wasn't listening, a play off of his old job as a prison administrator and the phonetic similarity to 'Watari'. It didn't bother him, because despite this nickname they were as respectful as a pack of kids who were probably ten times cleverer than he was could be expected to be, and apart from breaking up the occasional fight and the never-ending battle of allowing them to hack enough of the system that they felt accomplished but not so much that they didn't learn anything they shouldn't know, Roger rarely had to deal directly with the children.

Well…most of the children.

"He _provoked_ me!" Mello ranted, an accusing finger pointed dramatically at Near. Sometimes Roger felt that the emotional blonde might have been better placed in Hollywood than the House.

The headmaster didn't bother asking Near. There was no point. When he was a toddler it had been possible to trap him with words, but he was older and trickier now, and could easily evade Roger's pointed questions with vague answers that weren't technically lies but weren't the truth either.

They'd been through this little song and dance before: Near would do something to deliberately antagonize Mello. Mello, instead of handling it in a calm, rational manner, such as informing the matron (or just getting quiet revenge), would flip out and attack Near's possessions, or even the boy himself. Physical violence graduated the whole silly issue from the matron's jurisdiction and dumped it on Roger's desk.

"Regardless of whether or not he provoked you, violence is not an appropriate response," Roger said sternly. He'd had enough of this childish nonsense. "Go to the kitchens. Tell Constance you're on morning dish duty for the next week. And I'll know if you don't tell her."

"That's not _fair_!" Mello said shrilly, his ears glowing red in anger and humiliation. Normally they would have been concealed by his jaw-length gold locks, but he had very recently received an unexpected and extremely unappreciated haircut while asleep. Jagged blond hanks stuck up and waved wildly as he jabbed his finger even harder at Near, as though if Roger really _looked _at the other boy, the whole situation would suddenly gain a new and different clarity.

"It isn't fair," Near piped up, not unexpectedly. "You have no evidence that Mello did anything wrong."

"Shut _up, _Near! I don't need your help!"

"Mello, please." Roger wanted very badly to take off his glasses and rub his temples—he felt a migraine coming on—but showing that sort of weakness would only egg the boy on. He promised himself he'd have a shot of scotch later. "Near, the aide witnessed Mello hitting you—"

"She was on the other side of the room, and she was focused on helping Paran with his homework. She attached that interpretation to what she thought she saw—"

"Need me to hit you again to clear things up?" Mello threatened.

"Mello! Kitchen! Now! Near, I don't—"

"Why are you punishing _me?_" the blonde interrupted, his glare more searing than burning magnesium. "_He _started it!"

"And you should know better than to finish it. I will deal with Near. Go to the kitchens_,_" Roger repeated with weary finality.

Snarling with rage, Mello whirled around and complied, "accidentally" almost sideswiping Near on his way out.

"You have no evidence," Near said again, coolly, as soon as the door slammed shut.

"I don't _need_ evidence, Near, it's clear what is going on. It's the same thing that _always _brings you two here." Roger frowned. "And if you don't want to get Mello in trouble, perhaps you shouldn't antagonize him."

Unruffled, the tiny boy shrugged, guileless grey eyes wandering around the ceiling. "There's no evidence that I had anything to do with the alteration of Mello's hairstyle either."

His face was neutral, but the smirk hovered tangibly around the edges of the boy's words.

Scotch, and lots of it, featured prominently and vividly in a momentary daydream. "Sometimes people don't need explicit evidence. Sometimes it's obvious what has occurred by extrapolating from established patterns."

Forget established, this pattern would have worn a path through stone by now. This stupid cycle of Near poking and Mello overreacting had been going on for over a year—ever since Mello turned eight, the age at which the students were briefed on the true purpose of the institution.

Before L, the boys had been inseparable. They'd bonded in their first few days at the House, in the infirmary. The other students at that point were all a few years older and all focused on the competition for L; they were bound together by time and by their still-recent trauma from the A and B incident. The new kids were beneath their notice, and consequently ignored.

This shunning didn't seem to faze them. Near couldn't walk on his broken foot, so Mello took to trundling around the House and yard and "exploring", pulling the smaller boy behind him in a red wagon and explaining things to him with all the worldly knowledge one would expect a six-year-old to possess. Mello seemed to like having someone look up to him, and Near seemed to like having someone pay attention to him.

And then, on New Year's Day a year and a half ago, Roger had explained to Mello that he had been chosen as a potential successor to the greatest detective in the world, and everything changed.

First overwhelmed and then overjoyed, Mello had finally found his path, a way to prove once and for all to the world that he wasn't the worthless trash his father had almost convinced him he was. And with the steps to that monumental pedestal brought to his eager feet, he no longer needed the admiration of a younger child. Mello spent more and more time studying, and less and less time with Near.

And Near, not understanding and far more devious than his wide-eyed appearance would suggest, was apparently on a mission to get his attention back in any way available.

All of this was obvious to Roger, who had their profiles memorized and the damn psychologist nannering in his ear all the time—not to mention the boys themselves sent to his office at least every couple of weeks. To Near, who was not yet eight, and did not understand why Mello simply didn't have time for him anymore…well, Roger could see, in a roundabout sort of way, why he might act out in this way. As of yet he had not been able to bring himself to punish the younger boy, mostly because (though Roger would never admit it) he felt sorry for him. It didn't help that what Near said was true: there was no evidence. Near was immature, to be sure, but he knew how to cover his tracks.

This was starting to get ridiculous, however. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Near had to be taught that this sort of behavior was not tolerable. And yet…it was not fair, either, that he be left feeling as though he had been abandoned for no reason.

"…Roger?"

The old man started; he had been so lost in thought that he'd almost forgotten Near was still in his office, curled up in the chair across the desk with a lock of hair wound around one finger and a quizzical look on his face.

It was then that Roger made a decision that would come back to haunt him many times for the remainder of his life: just this once, he would bend the rules of the House, and act in what seemed to be in the best interest of these two children.

"_You _will report to the groundskeeper," Roger said, peering testily over his glasses and taking no small satisfaction in Near's wide-eyed shock.

"You can't prove—"

"It will be good for you. Get some fresh air and exercise. For the next week," Roger went on, overriding Near's protests. "And when he releases you, come back to my office, and we will discuss this further."

* * *

"You told him!"

Mello was back, and he was furious. Again. It seemed to be becoming a trend in any situation involving Near. Roger made a mental note to discuss Mello's developing anger issues with the psychologist.

"It is polite to knock before entering an office unannounced," Roger said abstractedly, not looking up from his papers.

Steaming, Mello stomped back out into the hallway and banged on the doorframe with his fist a few times.

"Come in, Mello," Roger sighed, sitting back in his chair. Students almost never came to his office of their own volition. There was no question of what brought the boy was here, though. Judging by his own accusation and the timing, Near must have somehow let slip (deliberately told, more likely) that Roger had briefed him on their potential positions as L's successors. "Now. Sit down and tell me—calmly and concisely, please—what brings you here."

Jaw and fists clenched, Mello sat stiffly on the very edge of the chair, his glare pure poison.

"You told Near about L. He's not eight yet. Why did you tell him?"

Roger steepled his fingers, regarding Mello over his glasses. "How this institution chooses to deal with individual students is a private matter among the student, Watari, L, and myself."

"L wanted him to be told early?" Mello's voice tightened. His hair had been trimmed into a neater style than the haphazard hack job Near had given him but it was much shorter, leaving his face more open than usual.

He hesitated. _Technically _speaking, he hadn't _exactly _asked permission from Quillsh to tell Near about L. Not in so many words. …Or actually mentioned it to him yet. Perhaps the children were rubbing off on him, he thought wryly.

"L has not made any decisions regarding the succession as of yet."

Mello, however, had not been chosen for the House for nothing. He might be volatile, but he was sharp, and he caught onto Roger's hesitation.

"_Was _it L's decision to tell him, then?" he demanded.

"I cannot disclose any information regarding that situation to you, Mello."

"That's bollocks!" Mello jumped up out of the chair with a clatter.

"Language, Mello—"

"If it were the other way around, you'd tell him about me," Mello ground out, voice trembling. "You _always _take his side! You gave him a head start so he would have a better chance than me!"

"_Mello_." It came out more harshly than Roger intended. Much as the children exasperated him, he had never shouted at any of them. Mello actually stepped back, an instinctive flicker of fear rippling through his angry blue eyes.

Reminding himself forcefully that children who had been abused needed to be dealt with gently, Roger let out a slow breath. He was not supposed to get emotionally involved with the students. He didn't even _like _children.

So why did it crush him to know this boy believed Roger would show preference to another child over him? Why did it make his chest ache hollowly to see him flinch when Roger raised his voice, and realize it was because that for even a split second, Mello thought he would strike him?

"Fine then," Mello snapped, turning on his heel to leave.

"Mello, wait—," Roger started, but he was gone.

Perhaps it was better that way.


	3. Interference and Impasse

Roger stood in the corner off his office, fixedly watching his walking twig creep jerkily up a stick in its little terrarium. He was nervous.

After two rings, the other end of the line picked up. "Roger," Quillsh said warmly.

Carefully, slowly, the headmaster let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. There was no reason to be so anxious, he scolded himself. Whatever his title, this was Quillsh. His friend. And what he meant to ask his friend was not so very unreasonable. In fact, it made perfect sense. It was his _job _to do everything in his power to ready the students to be potential successors to L. It was perfectly objective and rational, simply a clever idea he'd happened to have.

The students were definitely rubbing off on him, he thought dryly. The headmaster almost had himself persuaded. He wondered if it would work on anyone else.

It seemed to take much longer than usual to give his verbal report to Watari. One aide had left the House for family reasons, and had been replaced. The new student, V, seemed to be settling in well. The economics professor had gotten several of the students started in the stock market, and Roger had imposed a cap on them because they had been well on their way within two weeks to making enough money to be noticed. So on and so forth, a brief summary of each student's outstanding academic and mental developments. All was well at Wammy's House.

However….

"Any other concerns or recommendations?" Quillsh asked once he finished.

"Yes," Roger said. This was it. He had thought at great length about how to broach this subject with Watari (had tossed and turned on it for the last several nights) and had concluded that the best way, the most innocent way, was to simply state it baldly. "Some of the students have been analyzing L's past casework to learn his methods." Never mind that they'd done that for years. "As potential successors, I think it may benefit the student body to have a chance to ask him some questions about his work. Would it be possible to set up a remote connection for a brief interview?"

There. He'd said it.

L didn't have much to do with the House. According to Quillsh, he had lived there back when it actually was an orphanage, and that A and B had known him personally. Roger himself had only met the savant twice, right after he had accepted the and again a week later, when he had spoken with him for a time to get an idea of what to look for in an heir. Unsurprisingly, though Watari said L read all of Roger's reports, the teenager did not seem to have a great deal of interest in spending any time there now. He was busy with casework, after all, and despite his unique intellect, like many boys his age he seemed to view the idea of humoring a pack of children with distaste.

Roger honestly couldn't blame him. There was more than enough time to find an heir, after all-L was a young man still. The need for a successor, barring unexpected tragedy, was unlikely to come for a long while yet. Who in their right mind wanted to be constantly reminded that there was a whole Houseful of children eagerly awaiting the day he died so they could replace him? They'd already had one student go off the deep end and try to outsmart L.

The rough plan as it stood now (after all, they'd never done this before) was that when a promising successor turned eighteen, the young man or woman would begin training with L himself. There was really no _need _for L to be at the House until then.

L, Roger thought, would be the real deciding factor here. Quillsh was a known variable to him; he understood his personality. He had turned it over and over in his mind, and could think of no reason why his friend would turn down the idea. Maybe, he hoped, Watari might even talk L into it. The headmaster had angled his suggestion to be as little inconvenience as possible to the detective-a remote connection, just a brief interview. No direct contact, just a few quick questions. Breath held, Roger waited.

"That's an excellent idea," Quillsh said thoughtfully. "I will certainly discuss it with L. Anything else?"

"No, Watari."

* * *

L agreed, at which point Roger realized he didn't actually expect the detective to accept his suggestion. Now he couldn't sleep because he was torn between professional guilt for recommending this silly interview in the first place, and worry over whether or not it would be effective solution to his problem.

The problem being Mello and Near. Wasn't it always?

It had quickly become clear that both Mello and Near had a brilliant aptitude for the particular skill set Watari had instructed Roger and the staff to look for, rising quickly to the top over children much older and better practiced than themselves in courses specifically relevant to L's work.

Roger often told himself that _this _was the reason why he happened to follow their progress more closely than that of the other students. According to the numbers, Mello and Near were the best bet for the succession, hands down.

If he had been honest, though, Roger would have been forced to admit that he paid attention to a lot more than numbers when it came to those two, and what he saw bothered him.

Even after several years at the House and several new students following them, the boys had never really integrated into the social fabric of the student body. The older students especially were resentful of their talent, and Mello and Near didn't make much of an effort to make friends with the younger students—Mello was too wrapped up in studying, and Near very rarely reached out on a social level.

This in itself was not such a terrible thing, in Roger's opinion; L worked alone, after all, and though he was somewhat concerned about their ability (particularly Near's) to cooperate with other people and organizations on cases, the fact that they didn't have friends was really irrelevant, even convenient from the perspective of their potential as L's heirs.

What saddened Roger was that the two boys had never rebuilt their friendship with each other. Quite the contrary. What had begun as a rather endearing brotherly love, and then a somewhat more strained but still brother-like tug-of-war, had twisted and warped into a savage, bitter rivalry.

Spats between them were an almost every day occurrence now, spaced out by brittle silence and avoidance. In a complete turnaround from a few years before, it was Mello who now usually instigated their rows. No amount of reasoning could convince the older boy that Near was not favored above him, and every time Near performed better than he on some test or assignment, he took it like a javelin to the chest. Looking over their records, it seemed to Roger that they were about neck-and-neck; it was just that Mello never really seemed to notice or think it counted for as much when he excelled, or, when he had the clear advantage, he would get so worked up emotionally that he would unwittingly give it over to Near.

It had gotten so bad recently that Roger began to worry that their rivalry was actually eclipsing what should have been their true goal. Mello especially seemed to place priority not on doing his best, but on doing better than Near (and only God knew what Near was thinking, but Roger had suspicions that Near flaunted his grades in Mello's face just to make sure Mello didn't forget about him).

This, really, was what this interview with L was about. Roger hoped to remind the boys tangibly of what was really at stake.

It was…it was a move of desperation. Part of him regretted it already. If his friend found out that he was not handling this responsibility objectively—Roger buried that thought quickly, shoved it in the back of his mind and tossed a mental tarp over it. This was the last time he was going to interfere in the normal processes of the House for Mello and Near's sakes, he swore to himself, and anyway, it was barely a ripple in the ocean. He wasn't _really _giving them an advantage over the other students, since they, too, would have a chance to talk to L. That's what he kept telling himself. Most of the time, though, Roger couldn't convince himself of the conveniently true lies he had spun to cover the fact that he _did _want to give those two the best possible opportunity.

They both _deserved_ this far too much, the old man thought in some secret part of his heart, to jeopardize their chances over something as petty as a sibling rivalry.

* * *

And at first, it seemed to work.

L definitely made an impression, Roger could see it. Mello and Near both hung silently at the back of the room, observing from a distance while the rest of the children gathered eagerly around the screen. But he could tell that they were listening, and that they were intrigued by L's responses.

More than that, L noticed _them. _He had made a special point of asking Roger about Mello and Near later, over the phone.

"They are aware that they are being observed, even though it is a situation in which they are meant to be requesting information," L noted. "They watch without giving anything away. They have something of a nasty look in their eyes…. But I believe if I were forced to choose right now, I would choose between them."

A warm pride had reached right down to Roger's toes when he heard that, and though the bit about the 'nasty look' bothered him a little, he thought L must have meant it in a less negative way than he made it sound. L did tend to land in the territory of tactlessness when he aimed for honesty.

To Roger's relief, both boys made a noticeable change. Mello spent almost all of his time not in class or at meals holed up in his room, according to the matron, practically buried in books at his desk. With Near it was more difficult to tell, since he tended to read things once and internalize the ideas while doing something else with his hands such as working a puzzle instead of drilling himself like Mello did, but his professors reported that his work showed more thought and effort.

For a week, there was no fighting between them simply because they were almost never together. Then two weeks, then three. Roger breathed a sigh of relief. In a skewed sort of way, he almost missed the boys, because it was never necessary to send them to the headmaster's office anymore. This was good, though. Perhaps, in time, their dedication to their common goal would bring them back together, maybe not as friends, but still at a civil level of collaboration and competition.

Then one morning, as if to spite him for his optimism, the outraged matron stomped through his door, hauling both boys by the ears. Mello and Near were a mess of black eyes, split lips and torn sleeves, and all three of them were splattered with ketchup and orange juice. Breakfast, it seemed, had turned into something of a battlefield.

Matron Marta harangued for a while, which he felt was rather unjust since it seemed to have no effect on either Mello's barely restrained fury or Near's icy, tight-lipped calm, but did manage to waste ten perfectly good minutes that Roger could have spent doing something productive. Finally she left, abandoning the two miscreants to the headmaster's judgment.

"Would either of you care to explain why L's successors see fit to resolve their issues in such a barbaric manner?" He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice and failed miserably.

Mello had the grace to look ashamed for a moment, and Near's eyes, though opaque, fixed themselves onto his feet. Neither of them spoke, but the tension between them crackled almost audibly.

Roger sighed. "Near, please go wait in the hallway. Shut the door behind you. And don't wander off."

Silently, Near complied.

"What happened?" Roger asked, much more neutrally this time.

But it didn't take much to figure it out, when he thought about it. Roger berated himself for his own obliviousness. Quarter exam results had been posted just the night before. If that wasn't the root of this fight, he'd eat his own beetle collection.

Mello shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, cheeks nearly matching the ketchup smeared across them. "It won't happen again," he muttered. "Just send me off to the kitchens or whatever and that will be the end of it."

That sort of too-easy compliance was not at all like Mello. Whatever Near (or Mello) had said or done, the boy was clearly too embarrassed to tell Roger. And hopefully, too embarrassed to let it happen again. If Mello said that was the end of it, Roger thought, then he should just let it drop.

Instead, foolishly, he probed further.

"Mello," the headmaster said carefully, "if Near said or did something that—"

"No," Mello said vehemently, eyes flashing, then dropped his face again, shuffling his feet together, and muttered under his breath, "He didn't _say _anything."

"Did he do anything to upset you?"

Fidgeting, Mello glanced around the office in a trapped sort of way, as though he'd rather be anywhere else. "No." He ducked his head, letting his gold fringe fall over his eyes. With alarm, Roger realized the boy was trying not to cry.

Looking pointedly away, Roger picked up a box of tissues from his desk and held it out to Mello.

"I'm fine," Mello snapped, then sniffed loudly. "I just—he—" Another frustrated sniffle.

Roger waited, praying fervently that Mello wouldn't start bawling.

"That arrogant sot just _ignored _me," the boy finally ground out. His fingers clenched and unclenched sporadically. "Like I wasn't even there, just-" Mello flung his hand in a wildly undirected gesture, "like he's so much better than me that he doesn't have to even _acknowledge_—!" Gritting his teeth together, Mello visibly pulled himself together and in, not relaxing, but winding his anger tightly inside himself and regaining at least an outward control. Also visible, however, were the tears still threatening to spill, and Roger wasn't sure how much longer they could stay contained.

"Very well. Go get yourself cleaned up. You are to be confined to your room until further notice." He could reprimand him later, after Mello had a chance to compose himself. Clearly Mello wasn't in the best state to explain the situation, and Roger was not (ever, God help him) prepared to handle a crying child. "Please send Near in on your way out."

Near was only slightly more forthcoming. His little time-out in the hall had apparently given him time to work through the worst of his anger and wipe most of the ketchup off his face. Gaze bolted to the tape dispenser on Roger's desk and hands clasped loosely, as though to keep them from wandering to his hair or the hem of his shirt, he bore the interrogation with a tone of cool indifference.

"What happened?"

"There was a row."

"I had managed to observe that much," Roger said dryly. "How did it start?"

"Mello threw his plate."

"At you, I gather?"

"Yes."

Roger raised an eyebrow. "Mello threw his breakfast at you, completely unprovoked and without warning?"

"...No."

"Did you provoke him, Near?"

"No."

"If I check the security feed, will I discover you're lying?"

"I didn't say anything to provoke him," Near said sullenly.

"Do you have any inkling why he chose to act out?"

"...Yes."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No."

Restraining an exasperated sigh, Roger peered sharply at the boy over the rim of his glasses. This was worse than trying to pull teeth with a pair of tweezers. He wanted to trust the boys, he really did; he shouldn't have to go to the camera recordings to find out something as simple as what had happened. He remembered how impressed L had been that Mello and Near both watched without giving anything away. What a stupid trait to encourage, Roger thought irritably, and wished futilely that he could just have both boys caned and be done with it. When _he _was Near's age this sort of smart-alecky behavior would not have been acceptable.

"Why did Mello attack you, Near? According to your best evaluation of the situation?"

Near shifted, tonguing his still-oozing lip. "He was overreacting," he said shortly.

"Overreacting to what?"

A slight shrug. "He spoke to me, and was not satisfied with my response."

"What did he say to you?"

"He asked if I had seen the results of the quarter exams."

Just as he expected. "And what was your response?"

"…I didn't respond."

"How many times did he try to talk to you before he lost his temper?" Roger pressed.

Near shrugged again moodily.

"So," Roger said quietly, "Mello came to you, looking for a fight, and you accommodated him."

Apparently the boy hadn't thought of it in quite that way, because his brow creased momentarily, and his glassy stare sank from the tape dispenser to the floor.

"What am I going to do with you two?" Roger sighed, running a hand through what was left of his hair. It seemed like he lost a little more of it every time these two showed up in his office.

"Mello should learn to control his temper," Near informed his feet a little defensively.

"That may be so," Roger returned testily, "but you are equally culpable. You knew very well that ignoring him like that would goad Mello, but you did it anyway, and you fought back when he attacked you. Every time Mello goes off, it is _your _hand I find on the trigger."

The more Roger thought about it, the angrier he was getting. It was clear to _him _how much the two boys needed each other's support, why was it so difficult for _them_? Geniuses, pah! As far as he was concerned, this whole silly rivalry was probably little more than a cry for attention coupled with a failure to communicate.

More than that, it made Roger afraid for the boys. No, he caught himself. Not afraid, just…concerned. _Professionally _concerned that the two best contenders seemed determined to hamstring themselves—Mello through his inability to control his temper, and Near through his unwillingness to show any care or responsibility to anyone other than himself. L would never accept either of them if they continued this unstable, inflammatory behavior.

He sent Near off to his room too. If he talked to the child any more _Roger _might lose his temper and ream him like he very much wanted to, and that would be inappropriate. Instead he had a glass of scotch, calmed down, and wrote a note to Constance, indicating that both of them were to be put to work _together_—preferably scraping pots or some similarly filthy task—for as long as it took for them to at least pretend to be civilized.


	4. Yin and Yang

The Watari line, as Roger had come to refer to it mentally, rang.

"We're coming to the House," Quillsh said, irritatingly cheerful as always. He really _enjoyed _working with L, Roger knew, and he wished uselessly that dealing with Mello and Near was as rewarding. Maybe then he would be cheerful too.

"We?" Roger blinked. It had been almost a year now since last W had come to Winchester. "You're bringing a new student?"

"No. L and I will be leaving for Japan shortly to work on the Kira case. I expect this case may take a while, so I thought I'd check in. Both of us will be stopping at the House overnight in two days."

"Oh." The surprise in his voice was poorly disguised. Quillsh chuckled.

"See you soon, my friend."

* * *

Huh, Kira. _That_ wasn't surprising. It was all the students and staff talked about lately; some with fear, some with disgust, all with certainty that L would get him soon. Well, their predictions were about to come true, it seemed.

Roger wasn't concerned about Kira; that was L's problem. What made his insides wind tight with anxiety was L coming to the House.

The headmaster had always been honest to Watari and L about what was going on with L's successors. Honest…in the same sense that Mello and Near were always honest with him. He never _lied_. He was just very careful in how he presented the truth when it came to the top two. Hopefully the boys would have the sense not to prove him a liar with W and L here-given their not inconsiderable combined IQ, they showed an astonishing lack of combined common sense, in Roger's opinion.

Roger lay in bed, staring sleeplessly at the dark ceiling. The rain pattering the window, rather than soothing him with its lulling sound, made his knees and knuckles ache from the chill and damp. For a while he toyed with the idea of getting out of bed and having another glass of scotch to help himself sleep, but his feet were cold and the floor colder, and the nurse had scolded him recently for the unforgivable crimes he'd been committing against his liver.

Rest, apparently, was not in his cards tonight. He let his spinning thoughts take over to run their course.

The issue keeping him awake had never really sunk in until Quillsh announced his and L's imminent arrival. What with their constant bickering, Roger wasted most of his worrying over whether or not Mello and Near could simply maintain their positions in the top two without disqualifying themselves (or maiming each other). But like a bucket of cold reality over his head, no less shocking for the fact that he'd really known all along, an even bigger problem now confronted him. Unlike the boys' infighting, this one could not be fudged or skirted around. Maybe that was why he had avoided thinking about it until now.

In the end, it would be L who made his judgment. And in the end, only one would be chosen.

A yawning black pit opened up where his stomach should have been. The time for neutrality was long, long past. If Roger had been the objective manager he was supposed to be, he wouldn't have let Mello and Near get away with a fraction of the trouble they'd instigated; a solid case could have been made for either or both of them to be removed from the program, based either on any number of factors not limited to Mello's obvious emotional instability, Near's just as obvious co-dependency, and the disruptive effect they had on both each other and the other students. Roger knew he'd readily fiddle the reports to prevent that from ever happening. But to choose between them—

He might as well be asked to choose between his eyes and ears.

Mello, he supposed, was better equipped to make a life for himself on the outside; Near willingly let himself be sheltered, even welcomed the alienation from real life. On the other hand, Mello was much more emotionally invested in the title. But then, back on the first hand, though Near never failed to amaze Roger with his composure, the old man was sure that he would be shattered if he lost his certainty in the succession.

When the time came, how could Roger bring himself to tell him—tell either of them?—that they had _not _been chosen, how could he dash their hopes like that, make worthless their years of mental labor, years that could have spent being real children, playing and being loved by parents that could have cared for them far better than Roger could ever hope to? The succession was the only worthwhile thing he could give them, and it wasn't even his to give.

It wasn't fair! Roger had worked so _hard_ for them, had compromised his professional values and spent countless sleepless nights fretting over every little bump in their roads. He couldn't simply give up on them, even when—he forced himself to frame the thought—when one or both failed to attain the title.

Against his will, the memory sprang vividly to his mind of his beloved Rosalea, the discussions they'd had when the doctors had told them that she was barren. She'd cried in his arms and he had rocked her, soothing, telling her he always loved her no matter what, she was still the perfect woman; and he had been broken inside, powerless to do anything to spare his wife this misery and indignity. Back then, when they were still young and they felt capable of anything, they had considered the possibility of adoption.

But Rosalea was gone. Roger was old enough to be their grandfather, and more weary with every season that passed. The very concept of…no, he couldn't even think it. The boys belonged to the House. Merely suggesting it would be a colossal breach of his contract, and Roger had no illusions as to how it would turn out if he dared. It was absurdly pathetic to think for a second that either Mello or Near would meet such an proposition with anything but incredulous scorn.

Thinking of such things served no purpose. Roger brushed them irritably away. The choice of succession was a long way off anyhow; for now he ought to worry about how he would get either or both of them ready for it. After that, he would just have to hope for the best.

Hope seemed a long way off, though.

True, there hadn't been a real fight in a few months now—Quillsh had sent in a new student, Matt, and miraculously, Mello got along with him. Roger found the young man's bored, slouchy mannerisms a little off-putting, but he was more than happy to let Matt be as lazy as he wanted if it meant some of his relaxed attitude might rub off on Mello. With his little freak-outs occurring farther and farther apart, the blonde was right back to being tied with Near. A difference of a few points, maybe, but that was irrelevant to Roger.

But though each of them had incredible strengths, they both had serious flaws, too.

Even taking into account his own bias, Roger couldn't imagine how L would choose between them. Each of them seemed to have what the other lacked; Mello could have done with a dose of Near's self-control to temper his recklessness, and Near would benefit from some of Mello's fearless attitude to loosen his almost desperate need to manipulate those around him.

In Roger's mind, the ideal solution lay in them just getting along; Near's respect would sooth Mello's inferiority complex, and Mello's friendship would allay Near's fear of being abandoned by anyone he couldn't control.

If only he could magically combine their strengths, Roger thought dully, all his problems would be solved….

…And just like that, everything clicked into place.

Roger's eyes were wide open now, as startled by the idea that suddenly seized him as he would have been if a car had come crashing through the wall.

There was no established precedent for how to pass on L's name, obviously; L was the first. Why _couldn't_ Mello and Near succeed L together? It was the best thing, Roger was sure, for both them and the title: they would both reach their goal, and their talents and flaws would balance each other out, making them stronger together than the sum of their individual efforts. If they _both _won, surely there would be no reason to keep fighting. It was perfect.

Except that it wasn't his decision to make.

* * *

"Welcome back."

The genuine smile that stretched his mouth felt unfamiliar and alien as he shook his old friend's hand. Quillsh hadn't aged a day since last Roger had seen him; it seemed strange to think that this energetic man was actually older than him.

Immediately upon arrival L had slouched off to the room set aside for him.

Roger had had a heart-stopping moment in the entrance hall as Quillsh and his prodigy removed their jackets, when Mello had come tramping in, obviously in a funk about something or other. To his relief, the boy had cheered immediately when he saw that Mr. W was visiting. His keen blue eyes sharpened like blades on the grindstone as they followed L up the stairs, but he greeted Mr. Wammy politely and eagerly answered the old man's brief questions about his studies with a charming respect that Roger envied. Was it that Quillsh was a rescuer and benefactor and not the dealer of discipline, Roger wondered, or was he just better with children?

The two men ordered a tray of cakes and coffee from the kitchens to be sent up to L, and then retreated with their own tea tray to Roger's office.

"He's very wrapped up in this whole Kira business," Quillsh told him after pouring himself a well-earned cup of tea. "He's already made some very good progress, gotten some good leads."

They talked for a while about the Kira case—or rather, Quillsh talked and Roger sort of listened. He had to struggle to keep his mind from wandering. He wasn't particularly interested in Japan or any of this other stuff, and the longer they spoke without discussing what was on his mind, the antsier he was getting.

"That was Mello downstairs, wasn't it?" Quillsh finally asked, after what seemed like years. "My goodness. You keep me updated so well on how they're doing academically, but it always surprises me to see how tall they get in so little time."

"Yes," Roger agreed, seizing on the change of topic. "He's shooting up like a beanpole."

"Near as well, I imagine?"

Roger had to chuckle a little. "No, he's pretty tiny yet."

"Well, he has plenty of time to get his growth spurts in." Light blue eyes crinkled in amusement as Quillsh sipped his tea. "Both of them seem to be very promising candidates."

"Yes," Roger managed. He had to swallow his heart, which had somehow crawled up his throat.

Watari tapped his cup, his expression thoughtful. "It will be difficult to choose between them, I think, when the time comes."

Roger couldn't have asked for a better opening than that. A slow exhale to calm his racing heart, and then, as offhandedly as he could, "If L has difficulty choosing, perhaps it would be better to take them both rather than risk making the wrong choice."

"Both?" Laughing, Quillsh set his cup down. "Good heavens, no. You know how L is. Well, a little. I'm sure one will be one more than he wants to deal with, especially at first. Besides," he went on, sobering a little, "I've gotten the impression from your reports that the two of them don't get along very well. They don't seem like they'd make a very willing team. No need to create more strife for everyone! I trust that L will make the right choice when the time comes."

Fortunately for Roger, his friend didn't seem to notice that several of the headmaster's major internal organs were pooling, cold and dank, into his shoes. He did his best to make half-hearted conversation about the new Prime Minister and the goings-on in London, and finished his tea, and smiled and nodded when Watari announced that he was going to go speak with the teaching staff.

* * *

Well, Roger thought gamely after they were off to Japan and he had buried the heaviest part of his disappointment, he would just have to _prove _they could work together.

He gave instructions to all of their teachers that they should gradually start phasing group projects into their classes wherever applicable, and that students should grouped for such projects by ability. That would ensure that Mello and Near would be put together without his explicitly ordering it. A blatant move like that would have been a huge red flag to children far less clever than those two.

That wouldn't be enough. He needed to get at the underlying problems, condition them to be able to work with others, and particularly with each other. For this he turned to the House psychologist.

And that, when he looked back on it years later, was where the problem really started rolling. The full consequences wouldn't be clear until the whole terrible scenario unfolded, but even within the first few days it started to go a little sour for the headmaster, at least.

Roger had never really liked shrinks, and now he had a justified reason for it.

Though, to be fair, Roger had to admit it had seemed like a very good idea at the time. Dr. Torres had shared Roger's observation that Near was having difficulty connecting to others, and, well, New Year's was coming up. Records of the students' actual birth dates were destroyed and forgotten when they entered the House; all of the children were just counted as a year older at the beginning of the New Year, and each received one gift. And Dr. Torres thought she had the perfect idea for Near.

"What," said Near, in a tone that could have flash-frozen the English Channel, "is the meaning of this?"

'This' referred to the kitten, which the boy dropped unceremoniously in the middle of Roger's desk.

"Near!" Roger yelped, jolting back as the tiny animal scrambled among the budgeting spreadsheets he had been working on. (He could have done it on the computer, but he preferred to do it the old-fashioned way, and it was a lot harder for the kids to get a hold of.) "Get that thing off my desk!"

"No. I don't want it. I refuse to claim it."

Roger could understand why. The animal Dr. Torres had obtained was pure white with long, fluffy fur—a somewhat patronizing parallel to Near's own odd appearance. And he really hadn't expected the withdrawn boy to like the idea much. Heck, Roger didn't even like cats. Already his eyes and nose were starting to get a bit itchy because of the animal's proximity. Still, he had given the go-ahead, so now he was stuck supporting that decision.

"It—_she_," Roger corrected himself quickly, "was given to you to teach you a lesson. I'm afraid you don't have a choice in the matter. Now, please remove your pet from my paperwork."

"And what lesson is _that_? Internal mammal anatomy?" Near made no move to retrieve the cat.

Now the animal was looking up at him too. The resemblance between them, Roger noted, did not end in the general impression of whiteness. Near's disapproving glare was bad enough, but the combined power of both pairs of unblinking eyes drilling through him was unsettling.

"Interpersonal responsibility," Roger said pointedly, tearing his gaze away from the staring kitten.

"Interpersonal responsibility," Near echoed. "I see. It seems to be a new focus of the curriculum. Is that also why you have Mello and I doing most of our work together now?"

Near was far too sharp for his own good, Roger groused to himself. As he got older, Near was developing this certain tone of voice that made one feel as though he knew exactly what you were thinking, repeating the bits that he found the most telling just to rub it in that he had examined your story and found it flimsy and transparent. He would be good at interrogation. "Interpersonal responsibility and the ability to collaborate are both necessary skills for L to have, without which he could not function. Skills which _you _particularly need to work on. Which is why Dr. Torres recommended this…extra lesson."

Near frowned, almost pouting (he wasn't used to being told his skills were wanting), but L was the trump card; he was stuck. Roger wanted very badly to tell him to buck up and deal with it. Instead he asked, "What are you going to name her?"

"Cat."

Roger met the frigid glare with skepticism. "Cat? I should think someone of your intelligence and creativity could be somewhat more original."

"Fine. Its name is Robosapien."

It took a monumental effort not to roll his eyes. Roger knew that was the remote-controlled robot that Near had _wanted _for New Year's. Someone who didn't know the boy as well might have thought it a cute gesture. The man who had more or less overseen the raising of the stubborn young genius recognized it as a statement: _You knew what I wanted and you didn't give it to me. _Coming from the quiet, passive-aggressive Near, this was as good as a tantrum.

"That's nice," Roger said, pretending to ignore the jab. "Now take Robosapien and go find something productive to do before—ah."

A yellow stain spread across the quarterly budget. Almost reluctantly, Near's mouth quirked.

"Both of you, out!" Roger barked, pointing a querulous finger at the door. Sulking, the boy shambled away, Robosapien held at arm's length by the scruff of her neck.

Too bad he couldn't get away with being as petty as Mello and Near, Roger thought sourly as he surveyed his ruined paperwork. It was altogether too tempting to dump this mess into Dr. Torres's desk drawer.

* * *

Surprisingly, after a rocky week or two, both the cat thing and the group projects thing were working reasonably well. Initially there was something of a fuss because Near was angry to be stuck with a pet, and some of the other children were angry that Near had a pet and they didn't (Near had offered to give it away, and had been rewarded with a lecture from the psychologist). After some time, however, it appeared that either Robosapien was channeling her new owner, or Dr. Torres had somehow tracked down the one animal in England whose personality matched Near's to a tee.

Not, Roger thought wryly, that complacent self-absorption was a very uncommon quality in a cat, so perhaps he was exaggerating. Either way, the cat padded lazily after the boy and sprawled nearby when he played as though an invisible string tied them together, and sometimes Near was even caught carrying Robosapien or scratching her ears idly while he worked.

This was an excellent indicator that Near did, in fact, have the capacity to form attachments, according to Dr. Torres. Roger had never doubted that Near _could _form attachments, just whether he _wanted _to, so he didn't have much use for the psychologist's assessment.

Still, Near appeared to have accepted the situation at least. He even seemed to be trying harder to cooperate with Mello.

Even Mello had been pretty, well, mellow lately. Ever since L and Watari had left, most of his energy was wrapped up in following the Kira case. The investigation was dragging on much longer than Roger or any of the students had expected, but if that meant Mello wasn't causing mayhem, that was fine with the headmaster.

And if their projects tended to be somewhat Frankensteinian in nature and their "discussions" disruptive and often spiteful, rather than meshing smoothly as Roger hoped, at least they hadn't gouged each others' eyes out. Yet.

A quiet knock sounded at the door. Fully expecting it to be Near again, back to prove Dr. Torres wrong by throwing some wrench in the relatively smooth machine the House had become (or Mello, but he never knocked that politely), Roger set down his pen, sighed, and rubbed his temples. "Come in."

To his surprise, it was neither Near nor Mello, nor one of the staff. It was C.

Concord was the oldest student at the House, the first to be taken in after the infamous A and B. A quiet young woman who got along better with computers than people, Roger had only spoken to her on a handful of occasions. At Roger's invitation, she sat down in the chair in front of his desk, trapping her hands self-consciously between her knees.

"How may I help you?" Roger asked.

"Next New Year I'm eighteen," Concord said, and Roger nodded; yes, he knew that. "I've submitted program demos to several companies over the last few months. Almost all of them have offered me six-figure salaries to start."

"Oh," said Roger, momentarily at a loss for words. Now that it was brought to his attention, it was obvious that some of the older children would have started looking into future alternatives to succeeding L. It wouldn't be realistic to keep them in what was legally an orphanage forever. A twinge of guilt poked at him. He worried so much about the top two that he'd been letting his responsibilities to the other students fall by the wayside. "Do you intend to leave the institution?"

"Yes. In January." She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I'm not old enough to legally rent or own a place of residence yet."

"I see. Well then." Roger struggled to catch up to his confused thoughts. "Your interest in the succession, then…?"

Concord's expression grew rather fixed. "I think all of us know that L has a couple preferred candidates for the succession, sir."

Roger couldn't argue with that. Really, this made his life much easier. "Very well then. I will of course give you assistance in travel, finding a place to live, identification documents, and anything else you need."

"Thank you, Roger," Concord said, and that seemed to be the end of the conversation. She did not, however, stand up from her chair to go, but remained sitting and biting her lip.

"Is there something else you wish to tell me?" Roger prompted.

"Yes, sir," she replied, but seemed unsure of how to proceed. Frowning, Concord glanced at the jammer sitting on the desk. "It's about Mello," she said finally.

A small shadow of anxiety passed over the room. "What about Mello?"

She hesitated again. Roger felt like he ought to help her, ask questions or reassure her, but he had no idea what to say—none of the students beside Mello and Near had ever come to him to discuss other students, and they were more than forthcoming with their rival's faults. For the most part the students were a tight-knit bunch. Any information that came to him about their interactions came through the matron or other staff.

"I just think," Concord said slowly, choosing her words carefully, "that you should be aware that…Mello…places a great deal of value on the succession."

Roger relaxed. "It is the House's purpose to seek out candidates for L's succession," he said, wondering why on earth she thought that was important enough to talk to him about. "I'm sure many of the students—"

"No," the young woman interrupted, frowning sternly at him like she were a teacher and he a student who was missing the point of the lesson. "_Xian-ran_ alla everyone want that one, _ja_," she conceded, slipping into the students' slang dialect in her annoyance. "But Mello…I think he would do _anything_ to have the title." Brown eyes pierced through his glasses, as though she hoped to somehow mentally communicate something she didn't want to say out loud.

"Has he…already done something that you think I should know about?" Roger almost didn't want to ask, fearing the answer.

"No," Concord said, drawing out the word doubtfully (which made Roger wonder what Mello had been up to that clearly gave the older student pause, but not enough for her to tell the headmaster outright). "But…" her eyes darted about the room, looking for the right words. Finally, reluctantly at first and then all in a rush, "We…the other students…nobody likes him. He says things that—he figures out just how to get to you, and he _does _it. He reminds me of—" Concord stopped, pressing her lips together, like she thought she had said too much.

What kind of fear, Roger thought with a fascinated sort of horror, had Mello managed to instill in the other students that even the eldest and most adjusted of them was unwilling to speak her mind about him in the safety of his office? This was a side to the boy he had never really seen, and Roger berated himself for not paying closer attention. He had a nasty feeling he knew exactly where Concord was leading.

"Of B?" he finished for her, his stomach twisting, and Concord nodded.

Concord would know far better than Roger; she had been there, after all, and had been one of the students who had tried to restrain Backup when he ran away.

"I see," said Roger. Concord stood.

"That's all. I will let you know when I decide which job offer to accept," she said over her shoulder, then paused at the door. "You should really update your jammer."

* * *

This was troubling.

The B situation, was, after all, the very reason Roger had been hired in the first place. Quillsh had trusted him to _not _trust the kids, to notice any dangerous trends that would lead to a repeat of that tragedy.

But Mello _wasn't _like B, not how the reports had described him, Roger thought defensively. The biggest problem with B was that he had deliberately set out to not only antagonize the children around him, but to focus on a single victim, hammering away at A's mental walls until they cracked and tumbled. No one had observed Mello targeting any one person. Near was the closest possibility Roger could think of, and Near was far too emotionally stable and manipulative himself to be vulnerable to that sort of attack. The best, possibly the only way to hurt the younger boy would have been to desert him completely, and Mello was far too obsessed with their rivalry and the succession to ever do that. Once he was assured as a co-heir of the title, Roger was certain Mello would relax.

Besides, to say he would do 'anything' to obtain the succession—well, what did that mean, really? Roger had already admitted to himself that he was willing to do almost anything within reason to get Mello and Near the succession. It would all work out, it _had _to. Mello would never be pushed to go to any extreme. All he had to do was show that he and Near could work together, and Roger would somehow manufacture a way for it to be handed to them. Everything was looking so promising right now. Concord was probably just exaggerating. True, it wasn't really in her nature to do so, but she had said herself that none of the other students liked Mello.

He would just keep an extra close eye on the boy, Roger resolved, and act if he noticed anything worrisome.

* * *

Unfortunately, that something occurred before he had time to reason away his worries.

Even holed up in his office as he always was, Roger could hear the commotion downstairs, the racket of running feet and raised voices clearly audible through the well-insulated floor and plush carpet. The headmaster frowned.

Lovely. Oh well. Whatever it was, the matron would deal with it soon; Mother Marta was extremely strict about noise level—

But the disruption was getting louder, not quieter, and Marta's strident scolding could be heard in the stairwell, shouting for the students to return to their game and let the headmaster handle this. Sighing, Roger took off his glasses and pressed his wrinkled palms to his eyes. Sometimes, he really regretted leaving the security training center.

It was a terrible disappointment to see that it was Mello and Near that were the latest objects of Marta's wrath, though not remotely surprising. What _was _unexpected that she dragged a third child in her wake.

"What happened?" Roger asked quickly, cutting off Marta's tirade before it could start.

Marta, her Russian accent bleeding through in her disgust, laid out the situation: most of the children had been outside, playing kickball. Sember, the third child, had been hanging around in left field and had heard a commotion back behind the garden shed. He wouldn't say what he had seen, but when he had yelled, the aide supervising the game had come running and found Mello and Near in a standoff, Robosapien's tiny broken body on the ground between them.

Roger thought he might be sick.

Sember looked nauseous too. Mello and Near, however, shared an almost identical closed expression.

"Please wait outside a moment, Matron," Roger said tiredly. He doubted leaving any two of these three in the hall alone together would be a good idea. "Sember? Do you have anything to add to this story?"

Sember was the same age as Near, but a good deal chubbier. The poor boy was sweating profusely, thick glasses slipping down his nose. Rabbitish eyes sidled over to Near and then to Mello, both of whom were watching him with hawklike intensity.

"No," Sember whispered. "I didn't see anything but—Raina saw everything I did."

It was harder to ignore Concord's warning with Sember's pallid face and frightened eyes begging silently for him to accept his obvious lie. "Mello and Near, out. I'll speak with you in a moment."

The boys filed out silently, exchanging a look behind Sember's back.

For all that Roger had been trying to get the top two to work together for all this time, to see them apparently cooperating in this situation was unnerving rather than reassuring.

"Now," Roger said quietly, "I need you to tell me what you saw."

But whatever Mello and Near had said or done stuck. S trembled and shook his head and clung to his non-story.

_Stupid! _Roger suddenly realized, as the child's watery eyes fidgeted between Roger's face and the jammer. Hadn't Concord practically told him outright that the device was obsolete? Either Mello or Near or both—heck, the entire House, for all he knew—would probably know if Sember told him a damn thing.

Exasperated, Roger dismissed the boy, and called Mello in.

If he hoped that he could prod Mello into giving anything away, that hope was quickly quashed.

"It was an accident," Mello claimed. "We were talking about our criminology project. I was pacing, and I tripped on a rock. I landed on the cat and I think its back broke."

"You were talking behind the garden shed?" Roger said skeptically.

"Yes."

"And you weren't fighting about anything?"

"We disagreed on some points of the project, but we weren't fighting," Mello said, and there was a scary glint in his bright blue eyes.

Roger frowned. To the best of his knowledge, neither of his boys had ever lied to him. Not told the entire truth, yes, exaggerated, yes, intentionally misled, yes, but never a straight up _lie_. The headmaster steepled his fingers and regarded the blonde over the top of his glasses, examining both him and his story critically. That the animal's death was an accident was hardly believable. Robosapien was exceptionally lazy even for a cat, prone to lying about in lanes of traffic, but Mello was not a clumsy child, and for him to land on _Near's _cat in just such a way that its spine snapped—the coincidence seemed unlikely at best, given the history between the two boys. Too, Sember's fear confirmed something darker was going on here. "You weren't arguing about anything at all?"

"No, Roger. Not til after. We argued whether we should move the animal or not. That's all," Mello replied, blue eyes clear and guileless. Concord's warning echoed in his head.

"You're certain that's the truth?"

"Yes, Roger." Mello's stare dared him to doubt.

But if he had no proof…Hell, he didn't even have any solid theories. "Very well. Send Near in."

Near's story was exactly the same. They had been talking about their project. Mello couldn't sit still and had to pace about while he talked. Robosapien was taking a nap. Mello tripped and fell at just such an angle that the unwary cat was accidentally hurt. Both boys had been momentarily stunned by the unexpected tragedy, and were arguing over picking up the swiftly dying animal and taking it to the infirmary or not risking moving it and running to get the nurse, and that was when Sember had come upon them.

"Near, do you really expect me to believe that story?"

"Yes, Roger," Near said simply, his gaze unwavering. "That is what happened."

"And Mello would say the same?"

Was it his paranoid imagination, or was that the tiniest flicker of triumph in Near's flat grey eyes? "Yes, Roger."

Roger couldn't shake the feeling they were lying. Roger was no genius, but he was smart enough to know that Mello and Near were more clever, more conniving, and probably more convincing at it than anyone he had ever met, definitely more so than himself. If they were determined to pull the wool over his eyes, he had no doubt they were capable of it. For once, there were no witnesses at all, no argument between the two of them. But much as Sember and Concord's fears and his own suspicions bothered him…Mello and Near were, for whatever reason, apparently cooperating with each other.

That they were cooperating against Roger was something he really didn't want to dwell on. Accepting this new arrangement, he ignored the hollow little feeling of betrayal in his heart. Hadn't this been what he had wanted, ultimately, at whatever cost it could be gotten?

* * *

And after that, there were no more fights. Mello and Near worked with little fuss; though the unspoken tension was apparent, they managed to pull their assignments together effectively. Sometimes it seemed that their work carried somewhat more of Near's preferred way of doing things, but Mello never complained. Even with the rising rumors and worries as the Kira case crawled on into its second year, the House was almost peaceful.

The cat was buried in the garden by the rosemary. There was no mention of getting a replacement.


	5. Fight and Flight

_L is dead._

Those three words on the screen of the Watari phone devastated him.

It wasn't the message itself, though that was upsetting enough. The young man's death was sad, but Roger had no particular attachment to L. What lent those tiny letters their crushing weight was their method of arrival.

If Quillsh had been alive, he would never have sent news of such vital import to Roger by an automatic message. He would have called personally.

Everything and everyone from Roger's old life had been left behind after Rosalea's untimely death and his move to Winchester. Quillsh had been the only friend he had.

Now Roger was alone. And not just with his grief. With Quillsh, Watari died too. That immense responsibility was now Roger's, and there was no one to help him.

For a long, terrible moment, he couldn't breathe. Then, he exhaled in a sharp rush. He had things bigger and more important than himself to worry about now, and a thought was pushing up through the sadness and shock (hot and shuddery, like the first pushings of an emerging volcano) that drove his grief to the edges of his mind.

Because—he almost hated himself, thinking what he was now thinking, because L and W were just recently dead, and no one should feel such relief and secret joy because of death—because if L was gone, and Watari was gone—no, no, _he _was Watari now—Roger's hands trembled—

The succession of L's title was now _his _decision, his and no one else's.

It came at a high price, but it now lay in his power to give Mello and Near what they always wanted.

* * *

He was so jittery with the toxic soup of half-numb pain and barely-suppressed excitement that Roger actually went to get the successors himself.

As he expected, Mello was outside with one of the Physical Education groups, running about like a wild thing. Immediately upon seeing Roger the boy managed to look as though he'd been caught red-handed, though he hadn't done anything wrong that the headmaster noticed or really gave a damn about right now. There were more important things afoot than Mello antagonizing the other students! On the other hand, Roger thought (his mind was spinning so fast, so many directions at once) just about the only time Mello ever saw the headmaster was when he was being reprimanded. The look of guilt was swallowed instantly by one of calculation when Roger told him to go wait in his office, that he had something important to tell him.

Near was just as easy to find, piecing a puzzle on the floor of the common room. Roger resisted the urge to tap his foot as the boy gathered up all the loose pieces onto his puzzle board (did he really need to carry the stupid thing with him right _now, _would it inconvenience him so much to leave it just this once?) but Roger didn't want any of the other kids to suspect that anything was amiss, not yet, so he waited with the best semblance of patience he could muster.

Finally. Roger had never dared to hope this moment would come.

"L is dead."

Near accepted this news with his usual composure—so calmly, in fact, that Roger suspected the boy had already deduced as much.

Mello, however, took it about as well as an oil refinery would take a match.

Though Roger was accustomed Mello to overreacting to just about everything, this outburst surprised him. As far as he knew, Mello had never even _met _L. It wasn't like he would have been able to form a personal attachment to the man. Perhaps it was his wounded pride and outrage that the position all the students were raised to aspire to had been defeated by an outside challenger that made him pounce across the desk and shake Roger by the collar.

"Mello…" Roger started, too surprised to say anything else, and Near finally spoke up: "If you can't solve the puzzle, then you're just another failure." Pieces clattered to the ground as he upended his own puzzle.

Roger wasn't sure what Near meant by _that _pointed little statement, whether he was referring to L's defeat by Kira or Mello's possible defeat if he didn't control himself, but it must have been clear to Mello because his anger iced over almost instantly. Withdrawing, he became almost tentative, eyes wide and expectant.

"So then…between me and Near, who did he…?"

Near's hand paused.

Everything hung on this moment, on Roger's calculations. He was sure they would agree (eventually), but he couldn't rest easy until he heard it.

"Well," he said slowly, "L had not chosen yet." Not a lie. "And he died before he could choose, you see." No one in the room seemed to be breathing; the only sound was the soft ticking of Near's puzzle.

Roger's voice finally broke free. "You could succeed him together, share the title. How about it?"

"I'm fine with that," Near said. The quickness of his reply rather undermined the deadpan tone of its delivery. Roger's heart leapt.

And then immediately crashed on the runway upon seeing the look on Mello's face. A look that clearly stated, _I would rather be forced to gnaw off my own hands._

"That's impossible, Roger," Mello snarled. "You _know _we don't get along! We've always been rivals."

That was _not _true, and Roger opened his mouth to contradict the boy, but Mello went on. "Let Near have the title. He'll do the job without emotion. Like his puzzle." Abruptly he whirled around. "I'm leaving the House."

_What? _"Mello!" Roger jolted up out of his chair.

"Do whatever you want, Roger," Mello tossed over his shoulder. "I'm almost fifteen. I'm going to do things _my _way now." The slam of the door punctuated this assertion, making the room shiver.

The headmaster goggled after him, feeling as though the floor of his office had dropped out from under them. Where on earth did that crazed boy think he was going to go? He had no relatives, no friends outside the House, nowhere to go—

"Excuse me," Near said, standing and brushing himself off. His steps were unhurried as he left the office, but the puzzle remained abandoned on the floor.

For a few long, stretching minutes, Roger didn't know what to do. How had things spun out of control so quickly? An argument would not have been unexpected, but he never thought one of them would go and relinquish the title! It took some time to grapple with the suddenly upside-down situation and reassert his center of gravity.

But he couldn't just stand here like an idiot, he had to salvage this somehow.

* * *

It had been a long time since the old man had run, but he ran now, rushing to Mello's room as fast as his stiff knees could take him. He was not the first to catch up to Mello, however.

Coming down the hall, he could hear Mello shouting and Near's quieter responses through the open doorway. Roger slowed, hope daring to lift its head. Perhaps the boys would work it out between themselves. They _had _been working together reasonably well recently….

But this feeble shred of hope, too, unraveled as he neared enough to hear what was being said.

"—going to back out now?" Near was saying.

"You don't _get it_, Near!" Mello yelled. "I'm _leaving! _I'm done with your stupid games! I'm not letting you hold that over my head anymore! Fuck, I'd tell Roger _myself, _I don't _care_—"

"Tell me what?" Roger asked, pausing in the doorway. The room resembled a second-hand shop that had been hit by a hurricane; clothing was flung all over the floor and the bed, desk drawers pulled out and rifled through, and there was a half-full backpack in Mello's hands. Both boys turned swiftly, looking like a pair of burglars caught in a vault.

Mello was the first to react. A thin finger, shaking with fury, shot toward Near like a weapon. "_Him," _Mello said in the sort of tone one might normally reserve for perpetrators of genocide. "He's been _blackmailing _me into working for him!"

"It's called _cooperation_, Mello, you seemed to have trouble with the concept without incentive—" Near interjected, but Mello rolled right over him, ignoring his fellow successor and addressing Roger.

"I killed that cat on _purpose_," Mello hissed. "Because unlike saint _Near, _here, apparently I have _anger issues. _I agreed to _cooperate," _he spat the word like it left a foul taste in his mouth, "in classes because he said otherwise he'd back up that jealous bitch Concord and tell you that I was just like that first psycho who ran away, so I'd be sure to get kicked out. Well, fuck you, Near!" he screamed, turning on the other boy, who absorbed the tirade impassively. "You happy now? You can have the stupid title all by your damn self. I'll get Kira first and _take _it from you if I have to. Starting with _nothing _is better than having to share with _you!"_

Zipping his bag with a jerk, Mello shoved past them both.

So that was the missing piece, then. Concord had been right all along. No time to think about that.

"You, wait here," Roger told Near sternly, and strode after Mello without bothering to make sure Near listened.

"Mello. Mello!" Thank God, the entry hall was empty; everyone must be at dinner by now. Roger caught up with Mello right at the front door, catching him by the arm before he could open it.

"Don't _touch me!" _Mello shrieked, yanking away and cracking his elbow painfully on the door.

"I'm sorry!" He held his hands up, backing off. "I'm not touching you. Are you alright?"

"I'm _fine. _Just let me go!"

"Mello, please calm down, and let's talk about this—"

"I'm sick of _talking!" _Mello lunged for the door, and Roger jammed it shut with his foot. "That's all _he _does, is _talk! _Let me _go, _Roger!"

"Not until we've sorted out a few things."

Electric blue eyes glowered at him. "You can't force me to work with Near!"

"I know."

"You can't talk me into it either," Mello said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously through his fringe. "No matter how much control you think you have, Roger, he'll twist everything around—"

"I'm not going to try to talk you into anything, Mello," Roger said quietly.

"Then what do you _want_ from me?"

"I just want to know you're not running out of here on impulse, that you have a plan—"

Mello scoffed. "So you can have me traced?"

"Mello," Roger said, and it terrified him to do this, to let go, but he could see now how deluded he had been for years, so caught up in _his_ hopes for the two boys that he had never thought to ask what _they _wanted or needed; he could see now how miserable Mello had become. "I want to make sure you'll be safe-"

"I can take care of myself!"

"I've never doubted that."

Mello drew himself up straight, his voice becoming cold and quiet. His hair swayed as he shook his head slowly. "You _want _me to leave. Near's always been your favorite, and, well, things sure worked out nice, didn't they?"

"Mello, you must know that's not true," Roger said, his heart breaking.

Mello's fingers flexed on the strap of his backpack. "Whatever," he said. He tried to pass, and Roger barred his way once more.

"You will always be welcome here," Roger told him seriously, searching Mello's eyes for some sign that he might actually be listening. "If you're ever in trouble, if you ever need help, you can always come home. That wouldn't be failure, Mello."

"Just let me go."

He withdrew, and without another word, Mello was gone.

* * *

"He's gone…"

Roger turned. Halfway up the stairs, Near stood clutching the hem of his shirt and staring at the heavy front doors. His eyes were wide and almost wild when they fixed on Roger. "You didn't stop him."

Damn, damn, damn! He'd already lost one, he couldn't afford for Near to lose his grip. In this single move, Mello might very well have knocked out the keystone that kept the other boy's formidable emotional walls in place. "It's going to be ok, Near," Roger said hastily, approaching him. But Near backed up a few steps, shaking his head.

"You could have made him stay. Why didn't you stop him?" Near demanded, his voice cold but cracking, like an iceberg breaking into pieces.

"It was Mello's decision. I can't force either of you to do anything," Roger said sadly.

"Open to us making free decisions _now, _is that right?" Near flared. "You've never seemed averse to manipulating us like tools in the past."

For a moment Roger could only gape up at the boy. His lungs felt as though they were full of rough-edged glass and rock shrapnel. "I've done everything I could to help both of you," Roger bit out, his voice shaking. "I did my damn best to help you work together and make things right between you—if you could learn to trust people instead of having to coerce them into everything you want them to do, perhaps Mello would have been willing to try!"

Immediately he regretted it.

The sudden chill froze time for a horrible, dragging second, during which Near actually stopped breathing. Round grey eyes went empty, as though the lights behind them had been shut off. Then he blinked, and the spell was broken. Before Roger could recover, Near was gone, escaping to his room.

_Damn it!_

He should go after him, Roger thought, but then what? Panic was creeping around the edges of his vision, black and crawling yellow. What could he possibly say that Near would listen to? Everything was falling apart. And it was all his fault.

Instead of following L's lone remaining heir, Roger withdrew to his office, locked the door, and poured himself a healthy dose of scotch.

Upon further consideration, he added a couple more shots.

Then he let the panic take him.

Watari and L were dead but not gone. They had left behind their names as empty titles, like shed skins that had to be filled by others who couldn't possibly hope to fit right.

This job had become far, far more than a job. W was an identity. _His _identity, now.

Roger took off his glasses and buried his face in his worn, arthritic hands. L was the machine that crunched the numbers and solved the cases, but Watari, Watari was the mechanic who had built the machine and kept it running. He had provided L with everything he needed—not just silly things like petits fours and sugar cubes, but _all _the resources of the position: power, financial management, security, bleeding edge technology and information, connections and diplomacy, contacts with skill specialists and corporations and government agencies.

How could he possibly expect to fill that role, a role he never really thought he would be expected to play, in which he had so little experience? Sure, there had always been the possibility that he would be called to it, but honestly, his older friend had been so much more youthful than himself, Roger had always expected that he, the younger, would die first, before there was ever a need for any successors to anyone.

And then there was L. Roger tipped out some more scotch.

To expect that Near would show Mello real trust and respect, or that Mello would even tolerate the idea of cooperating with Near…it was exposed now as mere hope, and a foolish one at that. Roger had been blinded by that hope, and had never seriously questioned what it was that had brought them together after the cat's death. He had let himself be taken in by Near's manipulations, because he wanted to believe the lies they fed him. And now Mello, God help him, was out in the world somewhere, homeless because even starting at zero was better to him than what the House could provide.

He was a resourceful young man, Roger reminded himself, and clung to that thought. The very idea of the boy out on the streets, hungry and cold—but no, no, Mello could take care of himself. If anything, he'd do _too_ well for himself, and at the first opportunity dive smack dab into the biggest, messiest pile of trouble he could find, and get himself murdered or worse. Roger tortured himself for a little while by dwelling miserably on all the possibilities of _that_ scenario.

Near, at least, Roger might be able to help, though things were looking bleak in that corner too.

Near was simply not ready. Ideally, succession had been meant to be conferred gradually, with an extended apprenticeship period to allow the chosen candidate to ease into the position confidently. Even if something were to happen to L, no one had seriously expected that it would be a problem before an appropriate candidate reached the training age of eighteen. It had never been intended that the title would come crashing down on a child's head without warning or assistance.

Perhaps a thirteen-year-old could thrive as a cushioned armchair detective, as the first L had, but circumstances had changed. L was no longer a shadowy, elusive myth than popped up every once in a while on a whim. He was the most prominent challenger to Kira, who had more than proved he was willing and able to take down anyone in his path. Anyone who claimed that name became an instant target.

This wasn't some tricky puzzle. It was a war, and his boys were headed for the front lines.

Unsteadily, he slopped another generous helping of scotch into his glass.

As if mere danger weren't bad enough, all the data from the case was lost, everything but what little scraps of information Quillsh had imparted to Roger personally and what could be deduced from outside observation. Roger didn't know much, and judging by how things had gone with L…well, obviously he had had to get close enough to Kira to figure him out that Kira had been able to kill him. That indicated the murderer didn't leave enough traces to pin him down from a distance. And even if he'd be willing to take such a risk, which Roger doubted, Near would be worse than useless as an undercover operative.

Beyond that, though Roger had full confidence that Near had the raw potential of observation and deductive reasoning that might scrape them through this mess, his skills were still undeveloped, not yet refined enough to meet a challenge of this magnitude and complexity by himself. He was _thirteen_, for God's sake. His interpersonal skills were atrocious, his Japanese was improving rapidly but was limited in its vocabulary, and as of yet he had no allies, no reputation, no personal clout in the world. They needed time, and every day they took was a day that Kira's influence grew unchecked.

His own inadequacy terrified Roger. If he had paid better attention, had worked harder or been smarter, he'd know what to do right now. If he were even a fraction as talented as Quillsh, he would have handled the situation between Mello and Near better. He would have found a way to explain to them that they were better off supporting each other and working together, instead of allowing things to turn out as they had—with Mello reaffirmed in his conviction that others considered him worthless, and Near left behind and abandoned again. If Roger had somehow been _better_ at his job, maybe both boys would be happier and better equipped to meet the back-breaking burden they had been chosen to inherit. A burden he personally had deliberately set them apart from the other students for, never until now considering that it might be a curse and not a blessing.

If nothing else, he could have taken more interest in the Kira case. Learned more valuable information. Maybe even predicted this outcome, might have had the wits to make contingency plans.

By now most of the bottle was gone. Roger wept, and drank, and cursed Kira, and L, and even Quillsh in his despair, hating them all for leaving both him and the boys in such a hopeless, hopeless situation.


	6. Promise

Waking was…unpleasant. His head and mouth felt like they were stuffed with cotton, and his entire body was stiff and sore from falling asleep in his chair. Orangey-gold sunlight lanced into his office, stabbing at his eyes and aggravating his headache. Worse, it told him that it had to be long past noon the day after.

Groaning, Roger pressed his hands to paper-dry eyes. Just wonderful. As if he hadn't made a proper hash of things already, the first thing he had gone and done as Watari was scare off one successor, alienate the other, get blazing drunk and sleep through most of the next day. This was not a promising indicator for the future.

Too late to change it now. The only way to go was forward.

Near, the matron informed him when he tried to call the boy in (she raised an eyebrow at his rumpled appearance, but chose wisely not to comment) had not come to class that morning, nor to lunch or tea. He'd been holed up in his room since the day before and refused to come out.

It was a little surreal, walking down the hallway of the dormitory; he very rarely came down here. Yesterday he'd been so worked up he really hadn't thought about it. Most of Roger's time was spent holed up in his own office, or in the administrative hall downstairs. Hoping awkwardly that another child wouldn't come out and want to know what on earth the headmaster was doing there and what all the recent fuss was about, he knocked quietly at Near's door.

"I'm not hungry, Marta," Near's muffled voice came, in a tone that suggested he was getting tired of repeating this.

"This is Roger. There are some things we need to discuss."

It took him several long moments to reply. "I am busy."

"I'm aware. That is what we need to discuss."

Roger waited, but Near seemed to consider that the end of their little interview. Sighing, he pressed a hand to his forehead, and said sternly, "Near, I really don't want to have to ask maintenance to permanently remove this door from its hinges, but I will if you don't come open it."

Shuffling sounds, and then the door creaked open a few centimeters. What little Roger could see in the darkness was a tangle of wires and cords, lit by the blue-white flicker of several TV and computer screens. It appeared that Near had commandeered several spare units and put them to work. He couldn't help but be slightly impressed at how much better the boy had used his time than Roger.

It also appeared, however, that he hadn't slept at all. The stripe of childish face that peered up at him was paler than usual. Squinting in the light of the hallway, Near's eyes were underscored with dark rings and rimmed in red—whether from staring at screens in the dark all night or crying, Roger couldn't say. Maybe both.

"What."

"As I said, we need to discuss some business. And you look like you should get something to eat. And some sleep," Roger added.

"I'm fine. We can discuss business right here. What do you want?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Roger said testily. "You know very well that this is not a secure location. Come up to my office and we'll talk there."

A long, measuring look, and Near relented. Possibly, Roger reflected resignedly, he was too tired to put up much of a fight. Probably too tired to have a useful discussion. The old man glanced back at his tiny charge, determinedly shambling along behind him with his eyes on the floor. Definitely in need of rest and, if Roger knew Near, too stubborn to admit it. Well, that could be arranged, though there'd be hell to pay later. It had already been pretty well proven that no one listened to Roger, so he'd just have to do things the roundabout way.

After setting the (new and improved) jammer and pouring Near a cup of hot tea, Roger settled behind his desk and steepled his fingers. Near took a sip of the tea, winced a little at the bitter taste, and added a generous helping of milk and sugar. Tucking a foot onto his seat, he waited.

"First of all, I owe you an apology," Roger said quietly. "I should not have said what I did to you when—yesterday. It was unfair and inappropriate."

Avoiding his eyes, Near gave a curt nod. Roger got the distinct impression that what was accepted was the fact that he had apologized, not the apology itself.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Roger wondered how to approach his next subject—maybe it would have been better to get Dr. Torres or even Matron Marta to talk to Near, but it somehow felt wrong to delegate it. On the other hand, even among friends, before Winchester, Roger hadn't exactly been known as the sort of chap who would lend you a shoulder to cry on. "Are you…alright? I mean, if you need to talk about…anything…."

He trailed off in the face of Near's look of dull irritation. "You said we had business to discuss," the boy prompted flatly.

"Ah. Right." Shifting, Roger cleared his throat again. He would bring it up later if Near was showing signs of emotional distress or instability, he revised, instead of pushing the issue right now. "As you may know, up until his death, L was in Japan working on the Kira investigation—"

"I know, Roger," Near interrupted. His voice was soft as always, but clearly expressed that he thought this whole talk was a waste of time. "I'm already piecing together what information exists from the case." He paused. "I gather you have no intention of changing your mind about my eligibility for the succession."

Roger pursed his lips. He supposed that what Mello had revealed about the killing of the cat and Near's subsequent extortion of the other boy was a…troubling indicator. But…hopefully Near had learned his lesson. And conveniently for Roger, he only had to convince himself now. Besides, the original L had been anything but a sweet-tempered, innocent child.

"No," Roger said. "I wanted, however, to make sure you really understand the situation. This isn't one of your homework assignments, Near. I trust you to be able to look at all the evidence calmly and reasonably, but that's not going to be enough. L has already died in pursuit of Kira. This is a dangerous undertaking."

"I understand."

_Do you? _"I just want you to be aware that you are under no obligation to continue the case, if you do not wish to. You have a choice, just as Mello did."

L's remaining successor met his eyes in a bloodshot blank stare, as though Roger had been speaking gibberish. "The title is nothing more than a label if it is not fulfilled," he said with a frown. "If we cannot finish what L started, neither Mello nor I deserve to succeed him."

Finishing his tea and wrapping his small hands around the empty cup, Near blinked slowly, making an effort to gather his thoughts. The tea was clearly working. Roger was actually impressed that Near was still as lucid as he was, but no level of intelligence and self-control could change the fact that Near was quite tiny for his age, and even a small amount of the drug went to work on him quickly.

Even as he was beginning to nod, he went on, "Mello has not relinquished anything but the ways and resources of this institution. Weren't you listening? He has not given up on Kira, nor on L, and neither will I."

Near shook his head a little, as though that would help clear it, then comprehension hit him visibly. His shocked glare would have probably skewered Roger to his chair if it hadn't been clouding over.

"You…" the boy started thickly. That was as far as he got, though he did manage to set down the tea cup more or less right side up before his head dropped to his knee.

Despite the fact that Roger was long past his prime, Near's slight frame was not much of a burden. He settled the sleeping child into his own untouched bed, tucking the covers up around him. Relaxed in sleep, his small, rounded face looked even younger than usual. Roger was reminded powerfully of the tiny toddler that had been brought to the House in the middle of the night, gaunt and abandoned and hopeless.

A guilty sorrow settled like a thick coat of clogging dust in his chest. Near's time at the House, it seemed, had not done much to change things for the boy.

Quillsh had been wrong, Roger thought bleakly. The students, no matter their amazing intelligence, no matter what horrific things they had experienced, were still children. Children robbed of childhood.

Daringly, he reached out a gnarled hand, smoothing the tousled curls back from Near's forehead.

"My poor boy," he whispered.

Leaving L's heir to his much-needed sleep, Roger rigged the door between the bedroom and his office with a jamb-sticker (confiscated years ago from a student), poured himself a cup of strong black coffee, and got to work.

* * *

By the time Near woke up, Roger felt less like the least competent person on the planet, if not entirely optimistic. Somehow the nagging worry for both Mello, wherever he was in the world by now, and Near, sleeping safe and sound in the next room, spurred him on rather than tearing him up. Maybe it was because he only had one he could really concentrate on. Maybe it was because the stakes were so much higher now.

Maybe losing Mello made him realize how precious they were to him—not just for their abilities, but for themselves, regardless of their failings and cruel games.

Whatever the cause of his newfound motivation, Roger had put together a file of all the information he had picked up from Quillsh over the course of the investigation, and had begun exploring both the network of L's past allies and the assets that had been left to his heir. What he found was heartening. There was more money than Near would ever spend; and it was a good thing that L was a neutral party politically speaking, because it appeared that he had at his fingertips enough indirect firepower and clout to take over several countries if he were so inclined.

The jamb-sticker alarm blinked at him. Excellent timing.

"Constance brought you some breakfast," Roger said without turning.

The door creaked the rest of the way open. "So I see," Near said coldly. "What's the surprise in _this _tray?"

Roger looked up. His mop of white hair was in serious need of combing and his eyes were a bit bleary, but overall Near looked far better than he had the day before. He also looked very angry, though for the unexpressive prodigy, this mostly meant the intensity of his gaze was turned up from 'disinterested stare' to 'evisceration laser.'

"I'm sorry I had to resort to such measures," Roger said. "It seemed a better use of time and effort than arguing with you over the importance of filling basic human needs until you passed out. The sedative was very mild. I promise you that breakfast isn't spiked."

"Recent experience gives me little reason to trust that promise."

Roger put down his pen and steepled his fingers, eyeing Near over his glasses. "Of the two of us, _you _are the one who has shown a proclivity for dishonesty. I have never lied to you, Near."

The boy didn't even blink. "You indicated you wanted us to make our own choices. Is drugging me your idea of free choice?"

"I consider not allowing you to run yourself into the ground a reasonable exception to the rule. Are you going to stand there arguing with me all morning and let your food get cold?"

Near was nothing if not logical. Still frowning, he padded to the desk, picked a piece of toast off the heaping tray, and curled defensively into the chair across from Roger. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Roger said.

The boy's eyes narrowed. "Roger, I have a lot to do. Please don't waste my time."

"You have time for some breakfast before we talk," he answered dryly. "To the best of my knowledge, Kira isn't breaking down the front door this very minute."

"That is not something to joke about."

"Neither is your health. You've been sleeping for over fourteen hours and I have it on good intelligence that you didn't eat yesterday. Eat, Near."

Sighing, the boy complied, nibbling half-heartedly at his toast.

"Now then," the new Watari said when he was satisfied that his charge was making a genuine effort to feed himself. "Will you formally accept L's title and inheritance, or would you like time to think about it?"

"I am unable accept the title," Near corrected him. "That is impossible until Kira is defeated. But I intend to win it."

Roger decided to just take that as a 'yes', resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was all the same from his standpoint, Near's odd notions of propriety notwithstanding. "Very well then. As you probably are aware, the position of Watari has been passed to me."

"I see," Near mumbled around his last bite of toast, reaching out for the plate of eggs, sausage, and mushrooms. Apparently the appetite of a growing adolescent could overcome his pride. "Do you expect regular reports on my progress?"

"I don't expect you to answer to _me_," Roger said, a little taken aback. "_I'm _here to support _you. _L left behind much more than a reputation; he had an incredible network of contacts and resources at his disposal that could be invaluable to your investigation. You are under no obligation to tell me anything about the case if you do not wish to. But," he hesitated, feeling unaccountably timid. "I believe that I could be of assistance."

Eyes unreadable, Near gave a short nod and forked up another bite of eggs. "I see. Can I expect these ridiculous coercion tactics to cease, then?"

It would have been frustrating, rather than funny, if it weren't for the fact that Near had already polished off half the tray. Roger smiled slightly. "The case may be your concern, but keeping you alive and well is mine. Don't starve yourself and I won't have to force feed you."

Near made a skeptical sound, but he finished his orange juice, and for now, that was enough for Roger.

* * *

The next few years were grueling ones for both of them.

Roger experimented with Watari's web of contacts to focus Near's education, pulling in the most useful tutors he could find—established experts in interrogation tactics, reading body language, self-defense, managing personnel, and the sorts of politics that were not shown on the news: the rules of thumb (because there were no others) in the underbellies of national governments and international organizations, cracks in the system, the nature and direction of operations and task forces that, if you asked anyone high up enough to know, did not exist.

Near never complained. On the contrary, he pushed himself harder than Roger did, past the edges of endurance and Watari's expectations. Gradually, the boy slept less and less, until he could keep himself going for almost fifty hours without faltering, his natural reserve and self-control crystallizing into a rock-solid shell of discipline through which little emotion escaped except what he intentionally displayed.

"You're not a machine, Near," Roger told him at one point, when he found the boy at a computer in exactly the same position he had left him seven hours before, staring through the screen and fiddling with a Rubik's cube, hands moving dizzyingly fast and eyes unblinking. "Even L was just a man, in the end."

"And in the end, L failed," Near answered, without breaking eye contact with the monitor, where a loop of some Japanese video recording was playing over and over. "Clearly, to defeat Kira, we must be _better _than L."

Saying 'we', as far as Roger could determine, was one of Near's ways of trying to internalize his lessons on maintaining a stable team dynamic as a leader. For as logical as the child could be, Roger found it baffling to try to follow the more elusive patterns of his obsession with symbolism, both verbal and physical. The old man wasn't entirely sure who 'we' was meant to encompass. He was too self-conscious to ask if it included himself.

Over time Roger slept less too, though it had less to do with staying up all night working as Watari and more to do with the fact that he _couldn't _sleep. When he did manage to doze off his sleep was restless and riddled with dreams, nightmares in which the boys were in danger and he was powerless to help them. Time and again Roger woke in a cold sweat, his fears dogging him into his waking thoughts. Sometimes it was Mello, kidnapped by child traffickers, sometimes it was Near, following Mello's lead and running away; sometimes it was both of them, still tiny tots, and Roger knew that something huge and terrible was lurking nearby, though he couldn't put a name to it, and he would turn and the boys would be gone.

As he had tacitly promised to Mello, Roger did not try to trace his whereabouts, but he clung tightly to the hope that the boy had taken Roger's parting words to heart and that maybe he would return. As weeks, then months, then even years passed, that hope dwindled and paled. Still, Roger found himself glancing out the window sometimes, half-expecting to see Mello's wiry form striding back up the driveway.

Once or twice he even caught Near gazing down at the gate, possibly for the same reason. Roger couldn't be sure. Near never spoke about his absent rival.

When Near wasn't studying, he was working on the case. Most of the time this meant either staring at screens for hours or thinking silently for hours while building castles and towers of objects that were ill-suited for stacking—things like marbles and pencils and nails, which would slip apart and scatter in all directions if jostled even slightly.

"Why don't you piece puzzles anymore?" Roger asked him once, out of curiosity. Before the Kira case, blank puzzles had always been the boy's favorite.

Near had just stared at him blankly. "I would already know where all the pieces go," he said, as though Roger were missing the point.

Construction of these volatile structures tended to take place in inconvenient locations such as hallways or on the floor of Roger's office. It took some getting used to, but there seemed to be some weird, intangible connection in Near's head between building towers and building up his case, so Roger didn't try to kick him out.

Actually, while Roger was a little uncomfortable with the invasion of _his _workspace, it wasn't so bad having him around.

* * *

"I'm going to the United States," Near informed him one day. No preamble and no small talk, as was usually the case with Near.

"Very well," said Roger. The idea of going to America held little appeal for him; it seemed like a brash, noisy sort of place to him, and Roger didn't much like brashness and noise, but it made sense. As far as power and resources went, the U.S. government would probably be best suited to Near's purposes. Working under the protection of a stable government, Near had decided, would be the best way to put his ideas into action once he had established as much of a case as he could, and Roger agreed. There was only so much that could be done from Winchester, after all, and for his part, the headmaster might sleep a little better at night knowing that the new L was being as well protected as possible.

"When are we leaving?"

"_I _am leaving next week," Near said. He paused, not for effect or out of hesitation, but to keep from jarring the precariously-balanced construction of spoons he was building as he laid on two more. "You will remain in Winchester and oversee the continued operation of this institution."

"But—" Roger reacted, then stopped quickly. Near turned to examine his expression, frowning slightly. He wasn't much better at picking up on emotional nuance instinctively, but he'd been learning the tricks of reading faces objectively. Whatever he was reading seemed to confuse him.

"The House is one of L's—and my—weakest fronts," Near explained, turning back to his spoon tower. Naturally, he was building it right in the middle of Roger's office, in a spot he seemed to have specifically calculated for its maximum obstructive effect on anyone trying to traverse the room. "If Kira—or anyone else—learns of this institution, they might learn too much about myself—and Mello, and the first L. It must be adequately secured against anyone who might come and ask inconvenient questions. Hiring a new, inexperienced manager now would be foolish and impractical."

"But…who will…." _Who will take care of you? _was what Roger wanted to ask, but he doubted Near would appreciate the (completely valid) implication that he couldn't take care of himself. Floundering, he tried to gather up his surprise and hurt and tuck it away somewhere unnoticeable.

Fortunately Near picked up on the gist of the question while remaining apparently oblivious to the impulse behind it. "I've been assembling a task force over the last year," the boy said. "One of my agents will meet me in New York. I require that you escort me there, and then return here to oversee things until the Kira investigation is closed."

"Oh," said Roger. "I see."

Near looked up again, his frown now pronounced. "You are dissatisfied," he observed. "Why?"

"I'm not—no," Roger said, returning to his paperwork. As easy as it had become to slip into the habit of following Near's lead (he was good at making decisions, if not so much at communicating them in a way that didn't make people feel like they were being used), it was somehow still hard not to think of Near as a small child. He wondered if this was how parents felt when their children moved away to school or to build their own families, this aching apprehension of empty rooms and of the heart-crumpling fear that something terrible could be happening at any given moment while he wasn't there to keep watch.

"You think I am unprepared to head up the task force," Near said, glancing at him sidelong.

"I think you are more than capable," Roger replied reluctantly. He couldn't help but be reminded of Mello's similar sentiment before leaving.

_I can take care of myself!_

"You think the task force is not yet prepared to discover my age," the boy hazarded.

"No one who spoke with you for a few minutes would have any reason to doubt your ability," Roger assured him.

"Do you have any good reason why it would _not_ be reasonable for me to meet up with the task force now?"

_Because I'll miss you, child. Because I'm afraid you'll never come back. Because you're the only one I have left._

"Not at all," Roger said, clearing his throat a little. "I trust that you know what is best for the case."

"Hm."

The silence wouldn't seem to settle properly. Roger wanted very badly to say something to fill the uneasy blank, but nothing was presenting itself that didn't sound trite and flimsy even in his mind.

Eventually, Near got up and left the room, leaving the shifting tower of spoons behind.

* * *

It had been a very long time since Roger had flown on a plane, and despite all the new-fangled trappings that first class had gained over the last several years, he still found he didn't like it much. The reason for the journey and the tense silence of his companion did little to improve the experience. Having grown up in the isolated hot-house environment of Wammy's, wandering about in socks and pajamas and seeing no one but the other students and staff of the institution, Near all but shut down completely when suddenly surrounded by thousands of milling strangers at Heathrow. At least security was not as invasive as Roger remembered it being. Kira had changed things. Still, Roger actually had to take the boy's hand and guide him to keep him moving through terminal, and Near made no move to release his ever-tightening hold until they were safely aboard the plane.

Who would have thought someone with such little hands would have such a strong grip? Roger wondered, flexing his poor, abused, arthritic fingers to get the blood moving through them again.

The journey itself was about as exciting as one would expect an eight-hour flight to be. Near slipped off his shoes immediately and settled in with his feet drawn up on the seat to play out a protracted battle between two toy robots, moving them about quietly and mouthing their dialogue to himself. Roger accepted a tot of scotch from the smiling flight attendant and ten minutes into the in-flight movie drifted into a perturbing dream where he was lost in a maze of people with no faces. At first he wasn't sure what was going on and he couldn't find his glasses, but then he remembered that he had to find Mello and Near, which was much more important.

"Have you seen two boys?" he kept asking the faceless people, describing them, but nobody knew what he was talking about, and all they kept telling him was that if he didn't hide his face in a box then Kira would get him, and then suddenly Near appeared, and he didn't have a face either.

"Roger," Near said severely, "Why are you still wearing your face? Mello didn't hide his and now Kira has him."

Roger tried to tell Near that they had to go find Mello and rescue him immediately, but Near had vanished again, and the faceless people were back with an empty shoebox and a box cutter, and they said they were just going to help—

"Roger?"

His eyes jerked open and were met with the sight of a toy robot poised three centimeters from his face.

"Good God, child, don't do that!" Roger gasped, clutching his chest. His heart felt like it was trying to hammer its way right through his ribcage.

"You were talking in your sleep," Near informed him, withdrawing the toy and curling up in his seat.

"Ah," Roger said, attempting to regulate his breathing. "I apologize."

Shrugging, Near returned to his game.

* * *

Near's agent was to meet them outside the gate at JFK. It was getting late, so the foot traffic wasn't as bad here; their flight was one of the last arrivals of the day. Near's tiny hand slipped into his again, but he no longer seemed to be trying to cut off the circulation in the old man's fingers.

It was actually sort of nice, Roger thought. Rosalea had always teased him about being an unaffectionate old codger, and, well, she knew him better than anyone. Despite that, it was strangely warm and pleasant to be given that sort of trust from a child, especially one who trusted and respected almost no one.

"Roger," that child said, breaking Roger out of his thoughts.

"Yes, Near?"

"I'm going to find him."

Taken aback, Roger looked down at his diminutive charge. He was walking slowly, but Near still had to shuffle along a little more quickly than usual to keep up with the man's longer steps.

"When we win, I will bring him back with me," Near promised. He could only mean Mello.

"Near…."

But before Roger had a chance to tell Near he had never expected such a thing from him, Near nodded his head to their left and said, "There's my agent."

Roger pursed his lips. The agent was a tall young man (well, not so very young, but quite a bit younger than himself) with a professional, military sort of air. Upon seeing that they were headed straight for him, he approached to meet them. Child or not, this stranger was one of Near's employees, and it would be undermining the boy's authority to argue with him over personal matters in front of the man.

On some petty level, Roger wanted very badly to dislike this stranger who was taking away the only one of his boys he had left. However, the man, who introduced himself as Rester, had a firm-but-not-aggressive handshake and he accepted the revelation that the mysterious investigator who had been directing his activities for the last several months was a boy who looked about twelve with commendable diplomacy. Not to mention, Roger thought wryly, that the man had been personally hand-picked by Near, who viewed incompetence as an offense worthy of prosecution. Rester seemed capable, courteous, and would probably turn out to be a decent fellow if Roger weren't predisposed to resent him.

Time to let go.

Right before Near released his grip, Roger gave his hand a quick squeeze. Near didn't look up, just let his hand slide free and reached out for Rester's. Then the pair of them walked away through the shifting lanes of people. Roger had to stifle something that was part chuckle and part choked-back sob when Rester visibly had to readjust his stride to accommodate Near's shorter legs.

His flight back to London would be boarding soon, but he stayed standing there anyway, the traffic swirling around him, until he couldn't see them anymore.

For some reason, as he walked forlornly back into the gates, he missed Rosalea more than ever.


	7. Prodigal

The phone buzzed and was at Roger's ear before he was entirely conscious.

"Yes, Watari?" he said automatically. Then it occurred to him that _he _was Watari, and no one had this number. He only kept the phone charged and nearby because he didn't want to break the habit, for when the boys finally came home and took up the title.

"…Roger."

"_Near?"_ Instantly Roger was wide awake.

"Is everything alright? Are you okay?" Roger felt like he'd know in his gut, _somehow, _if the Kira case was closed (surely the world would feel lighter and the sky would loom less), and the only other reason he could think of for Near calling was if he were in terrible trouble. Other than the odd rumor and a few suspicious news stories, he had barely heard anything _about_ Near and Mello in the last couple years, let alone heard _from_ them.

Near cut the feet out from under his fear before it could rise to choke him. "Everything is fine," he said. Maybe it was an effect of the phone connection, or maybe Near had somehow become even more withdrawn into himself than he had been upon leaving Winchester (or he was just lying), but he sounded almost mechanical when he said it.

"Oh," said Roger. "Oh, well, good. That's good. I'm glad to hear it." He really was. It made his chest ache, how good it was to hear that familiar voice, even in that detached tone.

"Yes," said Near. There was an uneasy pause, in which Roger considered several things that he could say which would all probably make this unexpected phone call even clumsier. Finally Near said, "I found Mello."

The hope that Roger had cherished all those years ago about the boys working things out between themselves flared back to life with a brilliance that scared him. "Oh! And…how is he?"

"He seems…fine."

"Have you seen him? Is he…is he there with you?" Roger tried without much success to quash down his hope before hearing Near's response. There was still plenty left for the boy to crush for him.

"I have seen him but…no, he is not here." There was rustling. Roger smiled a little in spite of his disappointment; Near was probably twisting his hair around one finger. "However, we are conducting parallel investigations on the case."

The old man got the strange impression that Near was proffering a self-conscious, second-best excuse for them working together, like he anticipated Roger's disappointment and it actually had some sort of impact on him. Roger had not forgotten the promise Near had made to him before leaving. Personally, Roger didn't have any expectations whatsoever of Near as far as Mello was concerned; he hoped that Mello would come back of his own volition, but that wasn't the other boy's responsibility. Apparently Near did not take it so lightly. "I'm glad to hear it," Roger said in the most reassuring voice he could muster.

This seemed to exhaust Near's imagination for conversational material. Roger waited a little. It was unlike Near to call like this for no reason—well, ok, that was an understatement. Near _never_ called. Still, the fact that the boy hadn't hung up already indicated he might actually want to talk about something, even if he wasn't being very forthcoming about it. Creaking and crackling, Roger dragged himself out of bed and slid into his slippers, padding out into his office and going to the window. The faintest touches of predawn brushed the edge of the sky, and the grounds were shrouded in fog.

"Some Japanese policemen came by asking questions about you two a while back," he said when Near remained silent, taking refuge in the practical.

"Yes," Near said. "I expected that. I trust they did not learn anything of much use."

"No, not that I am aware of," Roger assured him. "Concord came back and redesigned our entire computer security system, and she didn't find that any compromising files had been touched."

"Concord?" Near mulled over that bit of information for a moment.

"Yes." Roger hesitated. "She indicated that the police contacted a few of our graduates individually, she among them. That's why she came."

As time passed, many of the older students had trickled out of the House, scattering across the world and starting their own lives. Lately Roger felt like he was more of a career counselor than a training center manager. He had done a little scouting for new students as well, but had recruited very few. Maybe dealing with Mello and Near had led him to set the bar unreasonably high, but it was rare that any child stuck out to him as worth the effort.

Not to mention that, though experience had taught him that contingency plans were _always _a good idea, he had trouble forcing himself to explore the ins and outs of any future in which finding a replacement would be necessary in his lifetime.

"They did?" The dull, mechanical voice sharpened ever so slightly. "But they couldn't have told them anything damaging," Near said, as though he were reassuring himself.

"C also said that Linda sketched your portraits for them."

"Hm, well," Near said dismissively, "Kira needs a photo to kill. A drawing wouldn't work."

Roger relaxed. "So the case is going well, I take it?"

"It has progressed significantly," Near said. "I expect we shall wrap it up within the next few months. I know who Kira is now."

"You do? For certain?"

"Yes," said Near. "He's the one currently using the name of L."

"Oh. My goodness," said Roger. He felt like he should say something more intelligent, but Near had always kept him rather in the dark about his work on the case, and so he was a little at a loss for how to respond now that he was being so chatty.

Near paused for a moment, then went on, "Anyone who knew that L was working in Japan but didn't know of his death thinks that this pretender is the same L. Though obviously, he's not furthering the case at all. He's making L appear to be incompetent."

L's heir seemed to find this crime far more offensive than the fact that Kira had snagged the title which was his by right.

"Well, L's reputation can always be mended later," Roger soothed.

Near made a noncommittal sound. "In any case, I intend to join my team in Japan soon."

"Join your team?" Roger blinked. "Near…is anyone there with you right now?"

"…There is a skeleton crew of auxiliary day staff," Near mumbled.

"What, what do you mean, 'auxiliary day staff'?" Roger checked the clock on his desk. It was nearly six in the morning in Winchester, so it had to be night in the United States. "Are you _alone _there?"

"The security in this building is far more than adequate," Near said in a bored tone, downplaying the situation. Roger caught himself before launching into a scolding. Legally speaking, he reminded himself, Near was an adult. Surely by now he had learned something about how to take care of himself on a daily basis. And if he was too proud to admit that he had called home because he was lonely, well, Roger was too touched to push the matter and embarrass the boy.

"Well then," Near muttered, and hung up. Eloquent as ever.

* * *

Time had seemed slow before, but now the days crept by like a parade of snails. It was irrational, but after hearing from Near, it seemed somehow inevitable that Mello would contact him too. Actually, the more he thought about it (and the more time passed that the Watari phone remained silent) the stupider the notion was; Mello had run away a long time ago and had made a way for himself without Roger's help, had left on angry terms.

Knowing it was stupid didn't make the hope go away.

Still, he had known when they left that neither was the type to send home postcards to tell him about the weather and how they were doing. It was a gift just to know Mello was still alive and doing well, and while Roger was now plagued with even more anxiety knowing that the two of them were closing in on L and W's killer, it lifted his spirits to know that Near thought the end was in sight.

Burying himself in work, he tried not to dwell on it overmuch.

He had stopped telling all new students about the succession at the age of eight. The policy had been rewritten to include only students who showed a particular interest in criminal justice, the age raised to fourteen. The collaborative class structure he'd implemented to try to get Mello and Near to work together was maintained as well. The atmosphere at the House became much more pleasant as a result. Of course there was still all the childish drama one would expect from any group of people all packed into one House, but nothing like the bitter rivalry that Roger had fought so hard to break up.

It had been unseasonably warm this winter, but they finally had their first snow in January. The intermediate physics instructor was the first to give in to the inevitable fact that the children were going to be restless and rowdy until they got a chance to muck up the flawless sparkling white that mantled the grounds. They dragged scales and a chalkboard out into the garden and played some sort of game based on calculating the arcs and velocities of snowballs. Now a full-scale battle was being played out on the football pitch by all the students, involving an elaborate trench and wall system and a complicated fictional political situation—currently it appeared that talks to discuss the release of prisoners of war were being used as a distraction to send in a rescue party, who in turn were unaware that an ambush was waiting.

It brought him back to his time in military training, when he was not much older than some of these kids. That seemed like several lifetimes ago, now. This might as well have been one of their war games, except that the participants were laughing and having fun.

Roger watched through his office window, allowing himself a small smile. He remembered the first day Quillsh had driven him past that pitch, his alarm at discovering what he was getting into. He wondered, if he had known then the things he knew now, if he still would have accepted Watari's offer, or if he would have walked away. It was hard to say, but Roger suspected he might have turned right around and gone back to waste away with Rosalea's garden. The years and experience had changed him, he supposed, though he couldn't decide if that were a good thing or not for either himself or the House, or for Mello and Near.

Not that it was really worth pondering. He _had_ stepped into this position, that was reality. And despite all the stress and turmoil and anxiety and disappointment, there were moments, like this one, when things felt pretty ok.

And maybe, just maybe, not if but _when _this whole business with Kira was over (he had to believe Mello and Near could succeed, because if they didn't he didn't know who was going to stop Kira; certainly Roger couldn't) everything really would be ok sometimes.

As though thinking of the boys had summoned them (though that couldn't be true, or the line would be ringing off the hook every day) the phone in his breast pocket buzzed.

It almost slipped from his unsteady fingers as he fumbled with it, but somehow he managed to get the thing open and to his ear, breath catching—Near would only call again if it was the best news, or the worst.

"It's done," Near said before he could even open his mouth to ask, sounding as though he hadn't quite believed it himself until this very moment.

Relief overwhelmed him, dizzying and breathtaking, and he had to sit down. "Oh, that's wonderful. Wonderful," he babbled, hardly knowing what he was saying. He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to collect himself a little, so he could at least come across as sane at least if not entirely coherent. "Are you both alright? What happened? When are you coming home?"

The gap in the conversation stretched past 'normal Near delayed response time' to something more worrisome.

"Near?" Cold hands clenched around his lungs. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"It's…there was an incident. With Mello."

Oh, oh no. No, no, no…. "You—you quarreled? He still doesn't want to come home…?" Near didn't answer, and Roger's hand started to tremble. "Near? Did Mello…is he…."

Near's silence told him all he needed to know.

* * *

Roger was an old man, and had survived the deaths of many people.

He vaguely remembered the death of his grandmother, when Roger himself was quite small, remembered his mother crying and how the body in the casket looked like a large grey prune with too much rouge, and not like his Nan at all. His father had died of lung cancer shortly after Roger married, a painful and ugly death, and his mother passed away quietly in her sleep only four years before Rosalea died.

Lovely, laughing Rosalea. Her death was unexpected, resulting from injuries sustained in an automobile accident. Those had been the worst hours of Roger's life, unable to get in the ER to see her, pacing the squeaking linoleum of the waiting room listening to the ticking of the clock and waiting to hear something, anything about her condition, only to find that there was nothing to be done.

This was different from all of those experiences, in some way that Roger couldn't quite describe. He folded his arms and hunched against the cold as he waited on the front steps, watching the black car approach. There was that familiar, hollow feeling of something missing and chances lost, and the sharper, raw pain of the simple tragedy of the situation, but there was something more, this time; a sense of _wrongness_ and sick displacement, because this wasn't how things were supposed to happen.

Roger was all too aware that Mello and Near were not his sons, but they might as well be, and it just wasn't right that a child bursting with so much life and potential should die before a tired old man.

Possibly worst of all was that it seemed so _unnecessary_. If he had braved Mello's rejection and tracked him down anyway—if he hadn't been so afraid and aloof and had somehow gotten Mello to understand that Roger really did want the best for him—

If, if, if.

Two of Near's agents had come with him; Near had been unspecific, but Roger got the impression that they were going to stick around for a little while at least. He recognized Rester, going around to the back of the car to open the door for Near, and there was a woman as well, waiting near the car for the other two and looking around apprehensively. The two agents flanked the young man steps like bodyguards (which, Roger considered, they probably were) as he shambled up to the steps.

Near looked paradoxically almost the same as the day he'd left, and a thousand years older. He hadn't grown a jot. Roger was starting to think he would probably always be quite short. But he _had _aged; his hands and face were now slender and angular where they had been baby-soft and rounded, and in his movements he'd developed an odd, listless sort of grace. It was his eyes, though, that had changed the most; the deep shadows beneath them seemed permanently scored there, and their lackluster cast suggested he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep for the rest of his life.

It was not the face of someone who had just won a great victory.

It took all Roger had not to reach out and embrace the returning child, just to know for sure that he was in fact solid and real. The hyper-conscious distance kept by his agents and his reluctance to meet Roger's eyes restrained him. Near's entire demeanor clearly communicated that he'd rather be left alone.

"Welcome home," the old man said instead, and ushered them into the warmth.

* * *

Near's immediate priorities on returning were evading Marta's boisterous mothering and shutting himself in his room to sleep for several hours, which he did without so much as a 'hello'.

Roger couldn't be sure, but it seemed after a day or so like the boy was avoiding him. True, Roger didn't exactly seek him out—the walls that Near established around himself had grown high and thick, discouraging approach. He slept a great deal, which was understandable. He probably had a lot of sleep to catch up on. Still, even when he was awake Near didn't come up to the office. In speaking to Rester and Lidner, he discovered that Near had explained to them Roger's role as Watari, and that implied that the new L expected him to fill that role, but he never said anything about it himself.

It was hurtful to know that Near didn't want to see him, when Roger had wanted little else but to see and talk to the boys for so long. Now that he knew that Mello was beyond reach, it made him want to hold even tighter to what he had left. What was even more upsetting, however, was how out of character it was for Near. He never invited affection or social interaction, it was true, but there was a definitive difference between Near avoiding Roger and the new L avoiding W. The last time he had literally shut himself away like this had been when Mello ran away.

Maybe it had all been too much for the boy. Too much strain and pressure for too long. Most people would have snapped like so many toothpicks, Roger was sure. He could see it in Rester and Lidner; both of them put up a good show of businesslike composure, but it was obvious to the old man that they were emotionally and mentally drained.

It seemed to affect Lidner most. A few times he caught her just staring off, lost in thoughts, and then she would startle and look around as though she'd forgotten where they were.

"Mello grew up here too, didn't he," she asked him almost wistfully as Roger was showing them around the facility.

"Yes, that's right," Roger said roughly, turning away as he felt his face start to crumple.

"I'm so sorry," Lidner said, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

When Near finally emerged from his room to do something other than visit the kitchens and go back to bed, the first thing he did was go outside.

"Oh, child," Roger murmured to himself, shaking his head as he watched the boy trudge across the darkening grounds with only a jumper thrown over his pajamas. "Still no common sense."

"Sir," said Rester with uncharacteristic hesitation, "If I may ask, are you related to Near?"

"…No," Roger said distractedly, his attention drawn by the forlorn little figure skirting around the edge of the gardens. The two men were following his progress from Roger's office window; Rester had just made his report of the Kira case to Watari. What a horrific trial for anyone to undergo; how could he ever allowed either of the boys to go through that? But it was done now, and it was too late to save Mello.

From the looks of things, maybe it was too late for Near too.

"But you raised him."

Roger sighed. "I tried to."

"May I speak plainly, sir?"

The agent's face was a struggle between worry and an attempt to stay professional. Roger recognized that struggle all too well. "Please do."

"Near has not…been himself since the case ended. You know him better than either Halle or myself. I don't think he would be very receptive to either of us offering that kind of support."

"No. Probably not," Roger said wearily. He doubted it would be much more appreciated coming from himself.

* * *

The snow was almost melted, turning the yard into a slop of dead grass and slush. At first Roger sought out bits of firmer ground to step on, but quickly gave it up as a lost cause and tromped through the muck resignedly.

The boy was at the very edge of the garden, where Constance usually planted the rosemary. All of the herbs had been transplanted into buckets and brought into the kitchens for the winter, and most of the snow had been requisitioned for snowball fights, leaving the garden a pot-holed, muddy mess. Heedless of his bleach-white pajamas, Near was crouched down with his fingers laced loosely over his knees, staring at the ground. Roger noted with resignation but little surprise that he hadn't even put shoes on over his formerly white socks. The boy glanced obliquely through the curtain of hair that had grown out to almost obscure his face as Roger drew up beside him.

"You're going to catch your death out here, child," Roger informed him, unceremoniously draping the scarf he had brought around Near's thin shoulders and dropping a knitted hat on his head. Already his nose, ears, and fingers were red with cold.

"I'm not a child anymore, Roger."

"No, I suppose not," he agreed, tucking a coat around the boy. "A child would have come out, noticed he was uncomfortable in this inclement weather, and gone back in for his shoes. You, on the other hand, are a very stubborn young man, and are too caught up in your thoughts to pay attention to such mundane matters." He held out a pair of mittens. "Here."

Near frowned. He took the mittens but didn't put them on, clasping them in his spidery fingers. "What do you want?"

"Your agents are very worried about you."

"I know," Near said, his brow creasing slightly.

"I'm worried about you too."

"They briefed you on the details of the case."

"Yes."

Near sighed. "I expected as much."

"Near," Roger said awkwardly, when the other didn't go on, "I think…we should have a talk."

Small shoulders hunched defensively beneath the over-sized coat. "I expected that too."

Apparently Near had no intention of making this any easier. "Well, erm, it's just that…I know that this case and… how everything turned out with…." Roger swallowed. "With Mello. I know that must be very difficult for you…." The old man trailed off uncertainly, cursing himself for his own clumsiness. He was no good at all this feelings stuff.

"Are you going to retract the title from me?"

"I—what?" Roger stopped, bewildered.

"If you know the details of the case then it is logical that you would do so," Near told his knees. "I expect that Rester and Lidner will be finding other work soon as well."

Roger blinked a few times, trying to redirect his train of thought. He got the feeling that he and Near were holding different sides of two completely unrelated conversations. "Whatever are you on about?"

"You said yourself that you were worried. Speaking objectively, I too would have concerns if I were to examine this case as an observer." Near hung his head. "I would also have doubts about my capacity to handle that position."

Mouth open in surprise, Roger was momentarily at a loss for words. "Oh, Near," he said when he found his voice, and placed his hand gently on that bowed head. Near seemed to crumble at the touch, pressing his forehead to his hands.

It occurred briefly to Roger as he knelt stiffly next to the boy that he might not be able to get back up, but he would just have to worry about that later. "Now, what on earth possesses you to think you can't handle being L? Your case against Kira was successful, was it not?"

"Not mine," Near answered quietly, his voice muffled. "If my original plan had played out…I very nearly handed us all over to Kira. We barely avoided catastrophe. If Mello hadn't interfered, the SPK and the Japanese taskforce would all have been killed, myself included." Raking his hands through his fringe, Near wound the hair tightly around his fingers, pulling it taut. His calm voice clashed disconcertingly with his despairing posture. "He wasn't supposed to die. That was not in my scenario. I should have thought of the possibility of a fake notebook. I should have kept better track of Mello. I was careless, and Mello was killed as a result."

"It wasn't your fault, Near," Roger told him gruffly. It was hard to speak around the lump in his throat. "No one expects you to think of every possible thing. You can't control everything and everyone. No one can."

"I promised I'd bring him back," he protested almost inaudibly.

"And it turned out to be a promise you couldn't keep. They were circumstances outside of your control, Near. Mello…" Roger blinked rapidly, eyes stinging. "Mello made his own decisions."

"How can you say that, as though it's not important?" Near's breathing was growing sharp and shallow, the façade of control cracking. "If I made a promise, I should have been able to keep it."

"It's alright, Near." Roger was terribly afraid that Near was going to start crying, but then, he himself was already blinking tears, so maybe it really wasn't such a terrifying thing. Mello had died resenting him, never knowing how much Roger _wanted _him to succeed, or how much Roger cared. He wasn't going to repeat that mistake with Near. Tentatively, he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I don't hold that against you."

Near didn't flinch away, but curled up even smaller. "That's completely irrational, Roger!" he said tightly, hiding his face in his arms. "It's not alright!"

"There now, child," Roger said, attempting to sooth him.

"He _promised_ he'd wait for me this time," Near cried. "He _promised."_

His knees were starting to hurt and the mud seeping into the fabric of his trousers was freezing cold, but Roger didn't move, just waited and hoped that his presence was some source of comfort. It wasn't long. Near regained his composure after several seconds, taking in a few gasps of air and wiping self-consciously at his raw eyes with his sleeves.

"Ugh. I apologize," he said, struggling to replace his mask of calm. "That was completely unacceptable."

"There's no need to apologize."

"You're far too diplomatic, Roger," Near muttered. "I'm more than aware what a disappointment we've always been to you."

"A disappointment?" Roger almost felt like he might start crying all over again. "Near, I couldn't be more proud of you."

Near looked up sharply at that. "…_Why_?" he asked, as though he thought Roger were crazy.

"You've shown more strength in the last few years than I think you even realize," Roger said seriously, giving his shoulder a light squeeze and letting him go. "You've given me little _not_ to be proud of."

Ever logical and completely missing the point, the boy shook his head. "You've always wanted Mello and I to work together," he insisted stubbornly. "I suspected for years that that was what L really planned all along, which was why he never showed a preference between us. Mello disagreed…he thought it was you that wanted us to work together temporarily, not to succeed L together, but because you thought my influence would tame him. His analysis was it was _you_ who wanted _me_ to succeed L, but wanted him to be ready too as insurance."

Horrified, Roger had to interrupt. "That's not how it was—"

"I know that," Near said. Sighing, he wound a lock of hair around one finger. "It is clear now that Mello and I balanced each other out; we needed each other, like two halves of a whole. Both in the Kira case, and in this, both of us had some of the pieces, but only together did we have the entire puzzle. Without Mello, I am an incomplete shadow of L at best." His shoulders slumped. "It was under my nose for years, but I never truly understood until it was too late. I thought L had seen the connection all along, but then…I discovered that Mello met L, right before he left for Japan."

"He did?" Roger said, startled. Near went on, ignoring his outburst.

"If Mello spoke to L face-to-face, and came to the belief that L had little consideration for the succession…that lends his analysis of the succession a certain credence. He always was a good judge of character." Near gave his hair a short tug, frowning slightly. "But like myself, he was only half right. We really were supposed to work together. It wasn't L's idea, though, was it?" Grey eyes slid sideways, not quite meeting Roger's._ "_It was _you_ who saw it from the beginning, and tried to put the pieces together for us. And now…I've ruined the puzzle. It does not add up that you would have any reason to be anything but disappointed and angry."

"Good heavens, Near," Roger said, astonishment somehow finding him through the tangle of constricting sorrow. Over the last couple years he had almost forgotten the brain-scrambling effect trying to understand where Near was coming from could have; he could only just barely follow this bizarre, self-flagellating line of reasoning. Sighing heavily, he rubbed his forehead. "It wasn't like that. It was never like that."

"No?"

"I…I didn't think either of you couldn't have excelled as L's successor alone, given time and training. Both of you had the ability," Roger said slowly. "L might have chosen either of you. But you both wanted it so badly, and...I couldn't choose between you." He squared his shoulders. "I couldn't choose, and I didn't want L to, either."

Brought outside the realm of the logical and cost-effective, Near didn't seem to understand what he was trying to say. "You were unsure about our relative level of motivation?" he hazarded.

"No," Roger said. "I just, I…" he took a breath, then finally admitted out loud to himself, "I cared about both of you too much to disappoint either of you. Compared to that…I didn't give a damn about L, or the title. I wanted you…to be happy."

"Happy," Near repeated, as though he didn't recognize the word. "Oh. …I see."

He didn't look like he did. On the contrary, he looked as though Roger had hit him upside the head with a crowbar.

"Life isn't always clear-cut, Near," Roger said gently. "People aren't puzzle pieces or toys that fit together just like you think they should. Losing the people who are close to us is hard, but…life goes on. You're not less of a person, or less of a successor, without…him." He hesitated, then continued, "I was married, you know, before I came to Winchester. When…when she died, I never thought…it was like part of me, the best part, was gone. I didn't think anyone else could ever be such an important part of my life ever again." The old man's brow creased, and he said, almost as though to himself, "But…I was wrong."

As he was speaking, Near's gaze remained locked blankly onto empty space, but it seemed to the old man that he was still listening. "I know you're a very, very intelligent young man, Near—you're much, much smarter than me. But I've been around a lot longer than you have, and there's a lot to be learned from experience. You're far too young to be thinking you've messed up your life past fixing, child."

Apparently unsure of how to respond, Near finally looked away, flustered. "…You're doing it again," he said, changing the subject.

"What's that?"

"Calling me a child."

Roger wiped at his eyes and chuckled. "When you get to be my age, Near, everyone looks like a child. I may break myself of the habit by the time you get to be forty or so."

"_Forty_?" Near said, giving him a flat look. "That seems excessive."

"Yes, well. I fully intend to be around a long while yet, nagging you to eat your breakfast and remember your hat when you go out in the cold."

"Hm," said Near, resting his chin on his folded arms and gazing up at the House, "I suppose…I can tolerate that. If I must."

Roger smiled fondly to himself. Only Near ever knew what Near was thinking, but even the old man could see that he had relaxed, his face now obscurely melancholy rather than obscurely miserable. His effort to appear completely composed was somewhat ruined by the fact that he kept sniffing, however. Apparently the cold was finally getting to him.

"We should probably get back inside," Roger said. His legs had gone numb quite a while ago. "Marta would never let me hear the end of it if she discovered I let you sit out here and give yourself hypothermia."

Near lifted one of his feet, examining his mud-caked sock with resignation. "I expect we're going to hear about it regardless," he said glumly.

* * *

"What happened to the praying mantis?" Near asked, peering into the terrarium.

Roger looked over, a little surprised. Near had never shown any interest before in the various insects, both alive and preserved, that adorned the shelves of Roger's workspace. He hadn't realized that Near had even noticed the mantid that had replaced the walking twig.

The office was something of a mess. L's team—that is, Near himself, Rester, Lidner, and Watari—were moving their base of operation to an installation in London, for better mobility when Near decided to haul them across the globe to follow this case or that. Half of the contents of the room were now in boxes, the other half either marked for packing or to be left behind for the new manager. Most of the team was frenetically busy, but naturally, Near was the exception, managing to appear as though he was almost completely unemployed while the people around him went crazy. Two years away from the House had not broken his perverse habit of being obliviously underfoot while Roger was trying to work, and he had just finished a waist-high pyramid of origami cubes (made from every last sheet of Roger's printer paper) right in the middle of the semi-contained chaos.

"It died quite a while ago," Roger told him. "Mantids only have a lifespan of a year, you know."

"Ah." He frowned. "So you left it empty."

"Not at all." Roger came up to the terrarium, pointing at the underside of one of the leaves.

Near wrinkled his nose. "What is it?" he asked gingerly.

"_Chiasmia clathrata_, in its pupal stage. It's a cocoon," Roger clarified, at the young man's blank look. For as gifted and well-versed in some areas as he was, Roger thought, Near's education was tragically lacking in some vital subjects. Such as entomology.

"So it will hatch into a butterfly."

"A moth, actually," the old man corrected. "To be specific, a latticed heath moth. The biology class was examining caterpillars and they gave a few of them to me."

"Interesting," Near said automatically, looking a little glazed. Roger suppressed a chuckle, then turned and almost tripped trying to avoid stepping on the edge of the fragile origami pyramid.

"Young man, don't you have any packing of your own do be doing?" he grumbled, catching himself just in time and sidling between two stacks of boxes instead to get to his desk.

"No," said Near.

That was not surprising; as far as Roger knew he had very few personal belongings, and he had probably delegated anything of importance to L's work to poor Rester and Lidner to handle. "No cases to be working on?"

"I am waiting to receive the forensic reports on the Moscow murders."

"Hm. Here, why don't you find something closer to home to occupy yourself," Roger said, tossing him a newspaper from his desk.

Catching it, Near spread open the pages and held them up by the corners. "Are you trying to tell me to leave?" he asked from behind it.

"Not at all." As irritating as he could be, it was a good sign that Near no longer seemed to feel obligated to be working _every _waking second. He spent an almost worrying amount of time curled up in windowseats or on the floor in silent communion with a pair of finger puppets painted to resemble Mello and the first L. Roger found them mildly disturbing, but, he supposed, everyone had their own way of dealing with death. Roger's way was mounds of paperwork and scotch. Apparently Near's was pondering over creepyish little representations of those lost. If that was what helped him cope, Roger wasn't about to remark on it. At least he had come through the worst of his funk since their conversation in the garden. It was relieving to see that he now occasionally sought out the company of others, even if he was kind of in the way.

"Hm."

"You could help me pack," Roger suggested dryly, pulling open a filing drawer full of disks.

"You wouldn't have so much packing to do if you would simply load everything onto a server," said the newspaper. "It's your own fault you have so much unnecessary work." Unimpressed by what the local police blotter had to offer, Near picked his way across the room, spread the newspaper flat on Roger's desk (thus monopolizing one of the few clear spaces left in the office) and began folding in the corners.

"I suppose." There was no point arguing with the boy about it; Roger liked to do things his way, old-fashioned or not, and that was that.

"Roger."

"Yes?" the old man said distractedly, flipping through the disks. Most of these were tailored infiltration viruses. They would be coming with the team. Which meant Roger needed another box, which meant he'd have to go downstairs and get one from maintenance. He sighed.

"Do you remember what I said when Mello left the House?"

Roger stiffened warily. Near didn't pause in his task, his deft fingers unfolding the newspaper again and refolding it into a new pattern, pressing the creases smooth. They had not spoken of Mello since the garden. They had _never_discussed that day.

"Erm," was all Roger managed.

Taking his faltering reply as uncertainty, Near filled in for him, "I said to you, 'You've never seemed averse to manipulating us like tools.'"

Clearing his throat, Roger shrugged it off. "You were upset," he said gruffly. "I know you didn't really mean it." Honestly, he was a little impressed that Near could remember that conversation so accurately. Had it been haunting him all this time?

"I did mean it," Near said matter-of-factly. "However, the accusation was founded on false presuppositions. I was wrong, and I apologize."

Roger could only stare at him, speechless. Reaching out, Near placed the newspaper origami in the middle of the desk, got up, and picked his way out of the room. "I'm going to get more paper for the pyramid," he announced as he went.

He picked up what had been his (unread) newspaper. It was now a praying mantis—not perfect in its anatomy, but good enough to be clearly recognizable.

Huffing an incredulous laugh, Roger shook his head, turning the delicate thing over in his hands. It didn't really fix anything, or alleviate any of the pain of Mello's death, or exonerate him of any of his own failings. But some small thread in tangle of issues that made up their lives was ok, for now.

And that, Roger thought, was enough to get by on.


End file.
